


the false dragon and the young wolf

by lilac-winters (octothropes)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Robert Wins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 23:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 154,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octothropes/pseuds/lilac-winters
Summary: After surviving the Sack of King's Landing, Rhaenys Targaryen lives out the rest of her childhood in Dorne with her uncles and cousins. That is until Robert Baratheon decides that she's a danger to the crown and has to be bound to it in order to prevent another rebellion.The False Dragon is sent North to marry the heir of Winterfell and Westeros will never be the same.





	1. THE DARKEST OF NIGHTS

It was well known across the Seven Kingdoms that Rhaenys Targaryen should not have lived past her third year. Some thanked the gods that this was not the case, but others with more nefarious reasons prayed for it to be rectified in the years following the Sack of Kings Landing.

Her Dornish family called her survival a miracle, as they had been all but smothered by a heavy blanket of grief and anger the day she had been brought to Sunspear, covered in dust and so tired that she nearly fell asleep the moment she was lifted from her horse.

They had heard that both Elia and her small children had been brutally murdered at the orders of Tywin Lannister while Prince Rhaegar lay rotting in the Trident with the rubies from his breastplate mixing with the blood of commoners and knights alike. They had thought that the entire Targaryen line had been wiped out in one fell swoop and it was utterly devastating.

Many others, the most prominent being the new King, were less then pleased by her survival. He raged like a bull, threatening to invade Dorne, and kill the dragonspawn himself, but was placated for the time being with a buxom serving wench and enough wine to drown an army. Instead, his new hand, Jon Arryn was sent to negotiate for the life of a three-year-old girl.

Little Rhaenys had no idea of the developments. She would sit cross-legged on her temporary bed in Sunspear, playing with her cousins, while arguments raged across the kingdoms on whether she would be slaughtered, like her little brother, mother and father before her.

The night of the Sack, Elia Martell had held both her children tight to her in Maegor’s Holdfast, as she watched the gates open and Lannister banners spill through like they were ready to tear the city to shreds.

She clutched them even closer to her body as she realized that they were not there to help and the screams of the smallfolk being brutalized beneath rose up to her ears.

Despite not being as strong, Elia was braver than any of the soldiers raping and killing below her, and she knew that she would have to be prepared for the Red Keep to be stormed. There was nobody in all of Maegor’s Holdfast that she could truly trust to keep the babes safe. She would have to prepare herself for Tywin Lannister to order the deaths of both of her half-dragon children.

She could never trust the Lannisters, not after Cersei was cast aside for the position of Rhaegar’s wife, not when Aerys shunned Tywin and now that the crown was on the losing side of this war, it was really only the lions that could be the salvation or destruction of the Targaryen dynasty.

And Elia knew that they wouldn’t save them. When it came down to it, the lions craved power and Robert Baratheon would give it to him.

When Rhaegar died, he damned her children as well.

As she watched, fires danced in the distance, the chorus of the people dying in the streets became louder with each passing second as the smallfolk realized that they weren’t going to save them but to savage them.

Everything they did they would do sevenfold on her children for their blood and she would do anything to save them.

So Elia did to her children what she used to do when she was a little girl, playing in the Water Gardens with her brothers, splashing each other until they were soaked through while her mother watched, sat on a stone bench underneath the hot sun in her thin blue silks. When they chased each other and the only way to properly escape, to win the game, was to duck and cover before they could catch her.

She knew what she had to do to save them, to protect her children. She couldn’t just wait to have them ripped from her like so many Targaryen children had been taken before her.

Elia knew what to do. She had to hide them. There was no time for anything else, no time to escape, not while it was just as dangerous in the streets as it was inside the keep.

She put down Rhaenys and ushered her further into the room so the screams and cries were muffled to a dull roar. Her daughter was still in her nightgown, one that Elia had never seen before. The hair that had been brushed until it shone mere hours earlier was now messy from tossing and turning.

“Mama, what’s happening?” Rhaenys asked rubbing her eyes. “Where’s father?”

She wasn’t quite sure what she could say to answer the questions, so she said what she had to say. “There are some bad men who want to hurt us. We have to hide.”

“I don’t want to mama,” she wailed, the sound of her voice getting higher. “I want to stay here!”

“Sweetling, you must stay quiet, no matter what you see, or hear, you must not move until I come and fetch you.” She replied, trying to keep Rhaenys’ attention on her.

“But mama-“ she began.

“No, we must quiet, like when we hide from grandmother or Viserys. Do you understand?” Elia’s dark eyes were filling with tears, but she did her best to hide them as she looked into the matching ones of her daughter. Her young son was held tightly to her chest, fast asleep. Rhaenys was the one that she would have to protect from the soldiers now. “Do you promise? It will be just like when we played with Viserys, before he left.”

Rhaenys nodded solemnly, her mouth now shut. With Elia crouched down, they were almost the same size, and her daughter was doing her best to make up the rest of the difference by standing on her tiptoes. “Even grandmother and father said that I’m the best in the whole keep!”

Unable to trust herself to speak, Elia smiled, though she imagined it was more like a grimace. “I’ll stay with Aegon, but you go hide somewhere that they’ll never find you.”

Lowering her voice, Rhaenys tugged her mother’s hair lightly like she had when she was a babe. “Can I hide in father’s room?”

“Hide somewhere that only I will know where to find you,” replied Elia, trying to untangle Rhaenys’ little fingers from her hair with just one hand while Aegon remained still in the crook of her arm. “A lot of people will come and try to catch you, but only come out if you hear me.”

“Okay.”

“Do you understand Rhaenys?”

She nodded but looked towards to the door as Balerion, the cat that seemed to haunt the Red Keep that had been given to Rhaenys, darted into the room. Immediately her attention was drawn to it and Elia knew that she wasn’t paying much attention.

“You must tell me that you understand,” Elia said, holding her shoulder with her free hand so that she was watching her. “Swear to me that you understand sweetling.”

“Yes Mama, I understand,” Rhaenys reached up and wrapped her tiny arms around her mother’s waist, burying her face into her skirts. She let go reluctantly and then kissed Aegon’s delicate forehead. He stirred slightly in his sleep and his nose scrunched up for just a second before he let out a yawn.

“Do you promise? Rhaenys you must promise me that you will hide and not come out.”

“I do, I do promise mama.”

Elia pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head and closed her eyes for just a few moments to stop the tears from falling. “I love you Rhaenys.”

“I love you too mama,” she said giving her a quick peck on the cheek and Elia couldn’t help but desperately want to hold her and keep her with her forever.

As Elia watched her daughter grab hold of Balerion, she whispered a prayer to the mother to protect her children. Targaryen babes always seemed to be in far more danger then children of other houses and Elia couldn’t help but worry that her two darling children would follow in the footsteps of all the rest who were killed before their time.

 

***

 

Rhaenys Targaryen was curled beneath her father’s bed with Balerion the Black Dread when she heard Aegon begin to cry. It started out so quiet, that if there had been the slightest sound else, it would have been muffled, but Rhaenys knew it far to well. She always used to sit with him and Mama when Aegon wouldn’t settle and join her in singing him lullabies.

Sometimes, when Mama had fallen asleep but he was still restless, she would lie on her belly and tell Aegon about her day. He would gurgle and give her a toothless grin and Rhaenys would dream of all the trouble they would get into when he was big enough to toddle properly. He was always quiet when she spoke to him, but not now. She wasn’t there to comfort him.

It got louder and louder and she so desperately wanted to crawl from her hiding place and calm him down, but she had promised her mother that she wouldn’t move. Not one inch.

Balerion wiggled in her grip, scratching at her forearms like a true dragon. She tried to hold him tighter to stop him form moving but he gave one last claw and suddenly shot like an arrow across the room and out the door.

She lay there for a few moments, wondering what to do. Balerion was a dragon, and he would protect her from whatever was frightening Mama. She crawled cautiously from under the bed, peeking her head up to see if there was any movement from behind the door.

There was nothing in the whole of the Maegor’s Holdfast. No sound or movement from anyone other than Aegon and his tiny cries while Mama quietly shushing him.

 _I’ll be brave,_ Rhaenys thought, _brave like my father and like the first Rhaenys, the dragon rider. Mama won’t be upset with me if I’m quick and I fetch my dragon._

She took a deep breath, keeping low next to her father’s bed. When she was sure that there was nobody around, she shot out of the room after Balerion.

The corridor was completely deserted. The torches that illuminated the halls were very nearly burned out and they flickered, sending shadows across the room. Once, when she was a little younger and Mama was still sick from Aegon, Ser Jaime had taught her how to create shadows with her hands. He said that when his brother was younger, they used to play together and create puppets in the bowels of Casterly Rock while hiding from their father.

The servants were all gone, even Tilla, the nursery maid who had played with her while mother was in bed after Aegon was born. When she would go running through the halls, it was Tilla who would chase after her, trying to keep her from creating too much chaos.

Rhaenys padded quietly across the floor and took a peek into Mama’s room, where she was holding Aegon tight to her chest, singing quietly in his ear. She could remember her singing the same song to her before he was born, while she lay in bed and her father came to say goodnight.

It was then she heard the shouts. They were loud, coarse and foul and Rhaenys could picture men who were twice the size of her father, with straggly beards and rusty, blood, stained swords. All the members of the Kingsguard kept theirs so clean that she could see her reflection.

The thud of boots came loud and the floor shuddered. Rhaenys ducked into one of the little alcoves with windows and pulled the curtains shut just as the screaming began.

Rhaenys covered her ears. She had promised not to move, and she broke her promise, she wouldn’t break it again. Very suddenly, Aegon stopped crying and Mama began too, as loud as she had when her baby brother was born. She screamed and the very sound made Rhaenys want to cry too.

Her Mama was always brave; braver than any of the Kingsguard and hearing cry like that was the worst thing that she had ever heard.

Boots thumped along the floor and a sword was unsheathed; Rhaenys ducked her head and began to pray to the Seven, just like her grandmother taught her.

She couldn’t remember how long she hid behind the curtains, only that Mama stopped crying and screaming long ago. There were cheers and sounds of clashing metal and Rhaenys desperately wanted to go to her mother, but she promised that she wouldn’t move.

“Where is the girl?” At first Rhaenys wanted to run, thinking perhaps it was one of her father’s men, but she waited, not wanting to disobey her mother.

“The other dragonspawn?” a loud voice came from before the curtain. She could see the shadow of his form before her, so much bigger than she was. His sword was drawn and Rhaenys did her best to shrink so he couldn’t tell she was there. He slashed the area near her and she flinched. “She’s not here.”

A rustle, then the unsheathing of a sword, “she wasn’t in the nursery, or her father’s room. She’s somewhere in the Holdfast, don’t stop until you find her.”

“What if Stark finds her first?”

“He won’t.” The last word was said with finality and the sound of a tearing as the men sliced their way through the corridor.

Rhaenys bit her lip so hard that she could taste blood, trying to be as quiet as possible while tears coursed down her cheeks. All she wanted was her mother to hug her and kiss her and for father to tell her a story about the first dragons of Valyria.

She wrapped her hands around her knees and squeezed tight, staring vacantly at the rich velvet curtains. All she could do now was wait for her Mama.

 

***

 

Nothing could have prepared Ned Stark for the horror of Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen’s bodies. The boy was barely recognizable and his mother was so brutalized that Ned couldn’t look for longer than a second.

A Lannister banner that must have been brought in by one of the soldiers, one that could hide the blood that was still wet, covered both bodies but he had listed it to see what was beneath.

It was horrific, but what was worse was the way Jaime Lannister sat upon the iron throne with his unsheathed sword across his lap, still dripping with the blood of the Mad King. When Ned had entered the great hall, his first thought was that Jaime Lannister had claimed the throne for the lions, but when Ned had poised the question, he had laughed and said that he was keeping it warm for Robert. The boy didn’t have a drop of honor in his body.

He had done nothing to prevent the slaughter, but had instead helped by doing nothing as the family he was charged to protect died in the rooms above him. Their blood was on his hands and Ned doubted that it would ever wash clean.

He looked to Elia and her son again and something struck him. There was something missing. A child no older the three, the only daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen was not lying between her mother and brother.

Ned turned to Jaime, disgust evident on his face. He appeared so unconcerned with the massacre and it made him feel sick. “What about the little girl, Rhaenys? What did they do with her?” He almost didn’t want to know the answer. He had seen the depravity that the Lannister bannermen had unleashed on the innocent smallfolk in the streets.

There were babes that clung to their mothers who lay brutalized in the blood soaked streets. Entrails trailed from men staggering about, trying to insides from falling from their bodies. Children lying face down, their tiny bodies unidentifiable due to the amount of red that covered their clothes.

Was the princess the same? Were there too many stab wounds to identify which one truly killed her?

Jaime shrugged, rising from the throne and sheathing the sword in his scabbard. “They couldn’t find her, but I’m sure that your new King will want her dead if she is not already.”

“Robert would never sanction this!” The man that Ned knew in the Eyrie would never allow this, not this brutality. Robert was a good man, a man who would never harm children unnecessarily.

“Find her then. Robert will tell you to kill her, just like he wanted her brother dead,” Jaime pushed his golden hair back with his hand, still wearing his cloak as white as snow. “I can guarantee that she’ll be next to her mother by morning light if you give her to him.”

Ned shook his head. “He wouldn’t dare. He would face the wrath of Dorne and the remaining Targaryen forces.”

“Are you sure Lord Stark?” Jaime had a small grin on his face like he was trying to jest. “Men will do terrible things for love.”

“Perhaps you have Ser Jaime,” Ned could believe it. “But no honorable one would.”

With those words, he turned to find the princess of a kingdom that killed her mother, father and brother.

As he walked through Maegor’s Holdfast, he realized that it was starkly different from Winterfell or even the Eyrie. It was gaudy and overstated. Richly decorated with golden draperies and great windows that offered a view of the whole city that was now burning as if dragons had swept down and set it all ablaze.

He paused and looked through the open doors to the nursery and paused. Catelyn, his new wife was with child, and very soon the room that had been empty since Benjen, would be occupied once more.

This nursery -somewhere that children were supposed to play- looked as if it had been torn apart by wolves. Blood was splattered on the wall and across the bed and Ned could feel his heart drop to stomach and he thanked the Gods that the little princess wasn’t in the room when such hostile and merciless men had invaded it. Then he realized that what happened to her could have been worse.

Ned turned, not able to look for much longer. Then, he heard a meow. Sat behind him was a black cat, staring at him while its tail swished back and forth. He’d never liked cats, they were few and far between in Winterfell but his mother had kept one and it scratched at everybody but her.

The cat tilted its head

“Balerion?” From behind a curtain stepped little Rhaenys Targaryen, with tear tracks running down her face and her hands fisted in her dress.

She stared up at him with the biggest brown eyes that he’d ever seen, a mirror to her mother’s. He’d only seem them a few times, once when her husband had crowned Lyanna, rather than Elia, but he would remember them forever. She had not cried, but instead bore the humiliation with a grace that Ned had never seen.

She was so small, in an off white nightgown that was far more wrinkled than he would have imaged from the princess of the realm. She looked stricken by him, like he was the scariest man she had ever seen.

“Princess Rhaenys?” Ned asked in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper, lowering himself down to a knee. He tried to remember what Benjen had been like as a child, but that was so long ago.

“Did my Mama send you?” She stepped ever so slightly closer to him. “She promised that she’d come and get me.”

 “No, your Mama didn’t send me.”

 Her eyes filled with tears and she let out a whimper so quiet that it was almost impossible to hear. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, I’m not,” he replied, trying to keep her calm.

“Do you know where my Mama is?” She asked. “Where is she? I want my Mama!”

Ned didn’t know what to say. How does one say that to a little girl that her mother and brother were dead? “She’s not here at the moment, but she’s safe. She’s with the gods now.”

“I don’t want her to be with the gods, I want her to be with me and Aegon and father!” The tears were spilling fast now and Rhaenys began to sob violently.

Ned watched helplessly as she hugged herself tightly. “Come her, I’ll take you somewhere to stay for now.”

Through the whimpers, she managed to nod. Ned swept her up in his arms and ascended the stairs holding her to his chest as her tears soaked his doublet.

“I want my Mama,” she whispered with finality.

“I know princess, I know.”

 

***

 

When Rhaenys was as safe as she could be in Sunspear, the true battle began. Robert fought like a true Lord of the Stormlands to try and get her in the same crypt as the rest of her family. He raged and threw goblets across the room, cursing Ned for protecting the dragonspawn of a kidnapper and rapist. The Martells stood fast though and Jon Arryn, the new Hand of the King arrived to attempt to calm Oberyn, the Red Viper of Dorne who was raring to go to war.

When he arrived, Rhaenys was confined to Arianne’s bedroom with four guards at each entrance to keep her safe in case the usurper decided to send an assassin.

Both of Rhaenys’ uncles sat in Sunspear’s Solar with Jon for near two days, stopping only to eat or drink. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, Rhaenys would sit outside and listen for the winds to bring the soft words.

During the day, she played with Arianne and Quentyn, chasing each other through the courtyards and gardens while her aunt Mellario watched with a wry smile on her face.

It was still bright when the three men emerged. Oberyn stormed through the gardens, face redder than it had ever been. Jon Arryn nodded to Mellario as Doran crossed to her, watching Rhaenys chase Arianne through the trees while Quentyn sat and played with a little wooden sword that would he would bang when he wanted attention.

“What happened?” Mellario asked, placing a hand on his arm.

“She will renounce the Targaryen claim to the throne and for all intents and purposes become Rhaenys Martell.” Doran began, trying to keep his tone quiet and even so the children wouldn’t hear and become frightened. “Dorne will not seek vengeance upon the usurper. We will assist the crown in any ventures they require us for.”

 “And Rhaenys? What else do they want for her life? Robert Baratheon will want more than just that.”

 Doran ran a hand across his face. There were wrinkles that hadn’t been there the day earlier. “She becomes a ward of the crown. She will be married to whomever Baratheon chooses and there is naught that we can do about it.”

Mellario sighed softly and laced her fingers with his. “Who do you suspect it will be then? Tyrion Lannister, or a bastard boy from the Reach? You know how badly they are treated. He would relish that, torturing the father by abusing the daughter.”

He shrugged. “The gods only know who it will be, but Rhaenys is allowed a happy childhood until the Baratheon decides to take her away and send her off to who knows where.”

The two of them turned and watched their niece throw her arms around Arianne. Her dark hair was tied back in a long braid and she looked the very image of her Elia. Her mother didn’t fair well away from Dorne, but perhaps the daughter might do better.


	2. TIES THAT BIND

As she grew, Rhaenys Martell became more and more like her mother, without any of the lingering frailty that Elia carried. Her hair grew to rival her cousin Nymeria and she often tied it into a braid that fell to her waist to keep it out of her face. Her eyes were bright like the sun and her skin was dusky brown.

She would ride like demon through the dunes, at first chasing her cousins Obara, Nymeria, Tyene and Arianne, desperate to be just like them, strong and fast and as deadly with a weapon as they were.

It was not long after her tenth nameday that her uncle Oberyn decided to teach her how to defend herself. He had already started teaching Sarella, and Rhaenys was desperate to join in.

She was sat in her bed, reading a wonderfully exciting book about Nymeria of Ny Sar that Arianne had leant her, when he knocked on her bedroom door.

“Uncle, what is it?” she asked as he entered.

He smiled and sat beside her. “When I was your age, your mother and I were inseparable. She and I would chase each other around the Water Gardens for hours. When our mother decided that we were old enough, Elia was told to behave more like a Princess of Dorne who would eventually become a wife, and I was told not to bother her and learn skills befitting a prince.”

Rhaenys looked at her book, trying not to meet his eyes and let her disappointment show. “Am I going to start learning to sew and embroider?”

“Yes,” he paused. “But, if you would like, you can join in on Sarella’s training.”          

She froze, hand on the pages that she was about to turn.

Oberyn continued. “It was one of my biggest fears when I was young that Elia would get hurt and I wouldn’t be there to protect her. I do not wish to worry for you in the same way.”

She closed her book suddenly and looked up at him, unbridled joy in her deep brown eyes. “Really?”

He smiled softly. “Yes, really.”

She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his tunic. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! When can I begin?”

“I’ll speak to Doran first, but as soon as possible. Your other lessons will take priority though Rhaenys, and if your Septa says that you are not working as hard as you used to, I will have to stop the lessons.”

“I won’t, I promise! Oh thank you!” Rhaenys hugged him even tighter; smiling so wide that her cheeks began to ache.

Once Doran allowed it, Rhaenys began to learn how to wield a sword along with her cousins. Or at least she learned the basic of fighting. The first two weeks Oberyn refused to let her touch a weapon, making her run and drag pieces of wood around the tiltyard until she was so tired by the time the sun set that she would fall asleep the minute her head hit the pillow.

Oberyn was a harsh teacher. Once she was capable, she was given a wooden short sword and sparred with Sarella for hours on end, until Oberyn had to take the weapons away and send them off to bed along with the threat of banning them from leaving the confines of their quarters.

She would be covered in bruises and splinters and small cuts from the jagged edges of the wood, but Rhaenys was happier than she’d ever been. She would rush through her embroidery, leaving it far messier than it should have been for a lady of her standing and her sums were incorrect half the time, but she didn’t care how much she was chastised. Rhaenys just wanted to spar.

She would fall asleep still in her dirt-stained tunic and ripped breeches that she borrowed from Daemon Sand without telling him. Her hair was a rats nest and in the mornings, her Septa would pray to the Seven for patience in dealing with the impossible girl.

Rhaenys would wake with the sun, still covered in mud and sweat and desperately try to clean as much as she could before Septa Eleyna entered. Despite her effort, she was still told off for being a complete and utter mess. Rhaenys didn’t mind though, Septa Eleyna was kind when she wasn’t telling her off. She was happy in Dorne with her uncles and her cousins. It was easy to forget about her Targaryen heritage when she was with the Martells. She didn’t look like one, act like one or even think like one.

From what she could remember of her grandfather, he was a cruel, unhinged man. She always tried to stay away from him; she would hide when he went on one of his tirades, huddled behind her mother’s skirts or peeking from behind her father’s legs.

Her grandmother was much kinder. Rhaenys’ could remember the silver blonde hair that would surround the two of them like halo when she would read her a story. Sometimes there would be bruises on her arms and face and she could do little more than sit in a chair in the garden and let the sun warm her battered face as Rhaenys played with Viserys by her feet.

The last she had heard, Viserys was in Essos, or Pentos with his sister Daenerys. When they had left the Red Keep to travel to Dragonstone, Rhaenys was incredibly envious. She could remember raging about it for hours, shouting and stomping about as her mother tried to calm her down. Viserys was kind about it, promising that he would send her presents and when he got back he would tell her all sorts of stories, but nothing ever came.

On her thirteenth nameday, while Doran gifted her a gold encrusted book on the Dance of the Dragons and Arianne gave her three silk dresses, Oberyn gifted her only a short sword. She loved it more than anything else she’d been given in her life.

Each night, she polished it until it shone and she could see her reflection. Arianne thought she was mad, spending all of her spare time practicing in the tiltyard and riding horses, but Rhaenys thought it was quite reasonable. She had absolutely no choice in what she would do in her life from the minute she stopped being Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and her freedom would be limited when she was finally married off. She would make the most of the time that she was allowed to have.

Two moon turns following her nameday, Rhaenys awoke with blood between her thighs and a terrible churning in her belly. Dread filled her heart. Doran had once told her offhandedly that when a woman got her moonblood, she was ready to be married and bare children.

Rhaenys didn’t want to get married and bare children, she didn’t want to leave Dorne; she wanted to stay in Sunspear, riding her horse and sparring with her cousins. She especially didn’t want to be sent to Kings Landing, which only lived in her memories as the place that her mother and brother were slaughtered.

She sat on her bed, unable to gain the motivation to get up, or even move at all. Tears began to trickle down her face and very suddenly it was like a flood.

Rhaenys stayed there until Arianne threw open the door to tell her of her latest exploits with her lover of the week.

“You won’t believe what Daemon tried last night-“ she began with a massive smile on her face. It fell the minute she saw her little cousin sobbing heavily. “What’s wrong Rhae?”

“I-I got my-my,” she began, breathing heavily. “I got my moonblood.”

“Oh sweetling,” Arianne said and wrapped her arms around Rhaenys. “Why are you so upset?”

“I don’t want to get married!” she wailed, chest heaving and voice muffled as she buried her face into Arianne’s shoulder. “I heard uncle Doran say that once I got my moonblood I would have to go and get married.”

Rhaenys couldn’t see Arianne face turn thunderous, all she could see was the sun beginning to rise, casting shadows across the room. She buried her face into her shoulder and continued to cry.

 

***

 

It was not long after that day that Doran summoned her to his solar. She wished that he would talk to her like he used to when she was a child, holding his and wandering through the gardens. Unfortunately, everything changed and that no longer happened.

Mellario had left for Norvos a few years ago and now, Doran was aging quicker than ever. He now struggled to walk, and was wheeled around in a special chair.

Despite this, he was still the Prince and what he decided was law.

Rhaenys entered the room, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed. “You wanted to see me?”

Doran nodded and gestured for her to sit opposite him. “When Elia was a little older than you, our mother wanted her to marry Jaime Lannister and for Oberyn to marry Cersei. Instead, Tywin said that Cersei was to marry Rhaegar and offered Tyrion for Elia instead.”

Rhaenys frowned. “Tyrion Lannister? Isn’t he the Imp?”

“Yes. Your grandfather was furious and said that it was insulting to our family. There were a few more Lords that they considered marrying her too, but eventually, Aerys came to an agreement and she was sent off to Dragonstone to marry your father.”

“Was she scared?”

“Terrified. But she was brave. Elia was always braver than anyone gave her credit for. Less than a year following the marriage, you arrived. Once Aegon was born, it was suspected that Rhaegar planned to marry the two of you-“

Rhaenys gasped, “he what? That’s awful! I didn’t want to marry Aegon, he was my brother!”

Doran shrugged. “It was what Targaryens did. Rhaella and Aerys were brother and sister, as were many of your ancestors.”

“I know, but it’s still,” she shuddered, unable to find the words. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Your Septa informed me that you had your first moonblood not too long ago. Very quickly this news will reach Robert Baratheon and his Hand of the King will inform me that you will need to be married.”

“To who? Will I be married someone like Walder Frey or Gyles Rosby like you tried to marry Arianne to?”

He flinched a little bit. “No. You will be married to someone the king trusts immeasurably, someone who will not try to use your children to become King or Queen.”

“Why doesn’t he just say that I can never marry and keep me a spinster forever? That way he never has to worry about my children trying to claim the throne.”

Doran shook his head. “You know that your aunt and uncle are still alive in Essos, do you not?”

She nodded.

“Robert fears that Viserys will want to marry you and gain Dornish support. This way you are bound by marriage to the crown and to Robert. You are old enough to know this now,” he paused for a beat as if drawing strength. “I have tried to protect you, perhaps futilely, but you are my niece, my blood and I will try to keep you safe until my last breath.”

She reached a hand out and clasped his own from across the table. “I know uncle, I know.” She did know, when she had come to Dorne a traumatized little girl, an orphan he had fought with the crown to keep her protected in Sunspear. He had given her a dream childhood and she knew that he loved her. Both him and Oberyn.

Rhaenys closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “So who are my suitors to be? Who does Robert trust enough?”

“There are two. Jon Arryn has a son, Robert,” he began but she interrupted.

“Isn’t he just a babe?”

"Yes,” he said. “And I doubt that Lysa Tully will allow it. There have been several rumors that she has gone mad following all of the children that she has lost.”

“Who is the other?” Rhaenys asked, dreading the answer. It was sure to be horrific, an ancient lord who was famous for having numerous wives, or perhaps an impotent one that would beat her. Robert Baratheon would love to give her to someone who would make her life a misery.

Doran cleared his throat and her nightmares were interrupted.

“The second is the son of Eddard Stark. His name is Robb,” Doran replied, clasping his hand on the desk before him.

 _A Stark? From the frozen, barren land of the North?_ Rhaenys' eyes widened but she tried to hide her shock. _I know nothing of the Starks._

Doran kept his eyes on her as she processed the information. “He’s a few years younger than you.”

She cocked her head to one side, much like a little bird inspecting it’s next meal. “I’ve never heard of him? Isn’t he the heir to the North?”

“He is. He’s the eldest Stark. He was born during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“Do you know what he’s like? Is he kind? Is he clever? Is he handsome?” she asked, leaning forward, eyes wide. He was a few years younger than she, but surely that wouldn’t be a problem. Her mother was older than her father and their marriage was happy…

“I’m afraid I don’t know sweetling. Lord Stark raised him, and he is one of the most honorable men I’ve ever met. Do you remember him?”

Rhaenys paused, trying to think back to the terrible night in Kings Landing. All she could remember of Eddard Stark was his long face and grey eyes that watched her sympathetically. “He was kind to me, when very few others were.”

“Aye. Robert and Eddard fostered with Jon Arryn at the Eyrie for years. Before the Rebellion, they were closer than brothers.”

“And now?”

“After the Greyjoy Rebellion, they became closer once more. Besides Rhaenys, we don’t know whether you will marry Robb Stark,” Doran said. “It may be someone else entirely that the crown will want you to wed.”

Being married to a Stark seemed to be a better choice than being married to an Arryn. Age difference aside, Jon Arryn and his son lived in King’s Landing, where she would surely have to live. If she married Robb Stark, she would be far away from Robert Baratheon and his war hammer, hidden away above the neck in a castle of ice.

Heart in her throat, Rhaenys tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. She rose from the chair and went to leave when Doran called out to her.

“Rhaenys, if we had a choice you would stay here with us. But when Robert Baratheon became king, we had to fight to even allow you to live. This was one of the conditions to your survival.”

“I understand,” she said, pausing to look at him. “I truly do.”

 

***

           

It was dark outside when Robb’s father summoned him to his solar. He was still soaking wet from when Jon had tackled him into the snow after he’d beaten him while sparring. It had been childish and silly, but terribly satisfying when he’d buried his opponent in the cold white expanse. Now, he was cold and dripping and about to enter one of the most sacred places in Winterfell. In short, Robb predicated that he would be in quite a lot of trouble.

It had been Vayon Poole who told him that his father wanted to see him immediately, glaring at him disapprovingly. Robb had slunk in from the tiltyard, feeling very guilty.

Jon had started it, challenging him to a duel. Normally they only sparred when Rodrik Cassel was there to supervise, but he had left to speak to Mikken about procuring a new hilt for one of his daggers.

Robb had felt obligated to accept, especially after Jon had called him a craven for not jumping at the chance to beat his bastard brother. He’d disarmed him after a hard one battle, but as his back was turned, Jon had leapt at him, sending him plunging deep into the snow. They had wrestled for a few minutes, until the steward had shouted at them both with his harsh voice and sent Jon to muck out the stables after a proper scolding that Robb hadn’t been privy to.

When Vayon led him through the halls, Robb thought it was a minor miracle that he hadn’t grabbed him by the ear and dragged him.

He knocked on the door to his father’s solar and a deep voice came from within.

“You may come in,” he said and Robb pushed open the door. Sat behind his desk, with a quill in his inkwell, was his lord father. Whenever he entered his fathers solar, Robb always felt like a babe again. It always seemed much larger than anywhere else in Winterfell.

“Father, you wanted to see me?” he asked, very conscious of his clothes dripping puddles across the grey stone floor.

“Yes, take a seat Robb. I have to speak with you about something very important.”

He stepped forwards and sat up straight in the hardback chair across from him, with his mind racing for any idea about what his father wanted. Perhaps it was from when he, Jon and Theon rolled a barrel of ale down a slope and into a cart. Or when he and Jon were in the hot springs and began fighting over a wooden sword and he threw a rock at him, catching in the temple and knocking him out. But those all happened moons ago, so it couldn’t be that.

“What’s going on father?” Robb asked, trying to be as mature as possible. He normally wasn’t allowed to venture into his solar even though it was to be his when he became the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

The candle on Fathers desk flickered and the room became instantly darker as he jotted something down in what Robb thought had to be the ledgers. He’s seen them a few times when he’d permitted to practice his sums in this room, but they had seemed so daunting. Now, Father was flicking through them with a practiced ease.

 _It must hurt his eyes, to look at them in such low light,_ Robb thought. _When I’m Lord, I shall never work after the sun has set._

Eddard Stark had always excelled in making his children squirm. He did not look at Robb until he had closed the book and when he did, he had a frown on his face that made Robb’s stomach do backflips.

His father put down the pen and picked up a scroll that had been rolled up in the far corner of the desk. He looked up at his son stony faced. “You are going to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North once I die Robb. It is your duty to the smallfolk of the North to protect them,” he began, holding a letter in his hand. “It is also your duty to listen and provide support to your king and strengthen the North.”

Robb had a deep, dark sense of foreboding, like his father was going to tell him something terrible.

“I have received two letters. One from King Robert, the other from Prince Doran,” Father said, waving his hand over the other piece of parchment. “The year you were born, there was a Rebellion. The Targaryen line was removed from power following the Sack of Kings Landing. The only survivor was Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

“Isn’t she Rhaenys Martell now?” Robb asked.

“She may have had her title stripped, but she is still very much a Targaryen,” he paused, staring at Robb with a frown. “King Robert doesn’t trust her. He worries about the remaining Targaryen’s trying to retake the throne. He doesn’t trust anyone not to try and crown her and her future children.”

“Why doesn’t he just stop her from marrying?”

“Robert always has his reasons,” Father said. “And he and I have been like brothers since we were young. I trust him with my life and he trusts me with his. That is why he has asked for you to marry the Princess.”

His heart stopped. “What? You mean Rhaenys Targaryen?”

Father nodded once. “Once the two of you are old enough, she will travel from Dorne to Winterfell. Doran Martell will write and inform me when she is ready.”

Robb was frozen in place, trying to reason with himself. “Why me Father?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Because you are my son, and you are a Stark. All the other houses are far too power hungry and will attempt to snatch the power from the crown at the first opportunity if they are married to a Targaryen.” His father replied. “Robert trusts our family not to betray the crown.”

Robb nodded. His father was very honorable, for more than the Southern houses were. The Starks would never betray the King. Still, he had questions mingling in his head.

“How old is she?”

Father paused and skimmed the scroll. “Three and ten.”

“Have,” Robb began to say but stopped. “Have you ever heard met her?”

“Yes, many years ago. She was but a child, but seemed to be older than her years.” He replied.

“When will we be wed?” It was very strange saying it, that he was going to get married, but it was also something he would have to face.

“After your seventeenth nameday.”

Six and a half years from now. It seemed ridiculously soon, six and a half years ago, Arya and Bran had not yet existed and Sansa was but a babe in a cradle. Theon still lived in Pyke with his father and brothers and Jon- Jon was still there with him. Jon was his unfailing companion who would always stand by his side no matter the foe. But what if the foe was his wife?

He tried to hide the shiver that ran down his spine. What if she was like Sansa? Sansa always nagged and him and Arya for something or another. He couldn’t imagine being married to a girl who snapped at him every time his breeches had mud stains on them or he forgot which knife to use when he needed to cut his meat.

“After my seventeenth nameday I’ll be married?” Robb repeated, testing the word out on his tongue. It was such a simple word but with such heavy meaning.

“Indeed. I consulted your mother about it and she felt that sixteen was perhaps too young. I’m sure that Prince Doran will agree.”

“What does mother think about it?” he didn’t want to say marriage again, not when it was such a foreign concept.

“Your mother and I decided that you were old enough to know about this. You have witnessed your first execution; you are able to learn of your own betrothed. Much to your mothers anguish, you are no longer a child Robb. You are more than capable of handling this information. I do not wish for you to regress to a petulant child.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. You may go.” Father looked back towards the scrolls, making it clear that Robb should exit the solar.

He nodded solemnly and very slowly rose from the chair. “Thank you father.” He turned to leave, but his father called out.

“Son, I know that this is sudden. However, this is the best thing for you and her. When I wed your mother, I was in a similar position. I had very little choice in the marriage. But we grew to love each other and I trust her with my life. I am telling you this now, because I trust that you are will be responsible with the knowledge. You are my blood.”

“I will be responsible father,” Robb said. “I promise that I won’t disappoint you.”

His father’s head rose and in the gloom of the solar, it appeared that he was giving him a smile. A tight smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I know Robb. Believe me, I know.”


	3. A COLD WIND

It was two moons after Robb’s nameday that Doran told Rhaenys that she would be travelling North. He was seven and ten now, three years younger than she and it was universally decreed by both families that the two of them were ready to wed.

Rhaenys disagreed, but she didn’t have a choice. With Arianne’s help, she put all of her silken dresses away in a wooden chest and packed wool and furs and practical dresses that covered her from feet to throat. She had spent the last six years sewing them, as the thin silk dresses that she wore in Sunspear would not be appropriate in Winterfell.

On her last day in Dorne, she rode one of the sandsteeds for what felt like hours, until the sun set over the sand dunes and her hair came loose from its braid and became a tangled mess. She was flushed, sweating and her muscles ached like she had been sparring for two days on end but despite it she thought that she could take on a dragon.

She could feel the heat and the warm desert winds on her cheeks and vowed that she would return to Dorne, even if it killed her to do so.

As she sat in Doran’s solar for the last time, she could feel tears welling to fill her eyes. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“And I you. Your mother would be so proud of you.” His voice quivered and Rhaenys threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. She inhaled his scent, something so familiar that had been with her since she was little more than a babe. “You’ve been so brave, my dearest niece, bearing more than I ever wished for you to carry.”

A tear trickled down her cheek and she choked back a sob. “I promise that I’ll come back.”

“I don’t doubt that you will.”

Rhaenys released him, wiping the tears away. She took a deep breath, trying to stop herself from saying the words for as long as possible. “Goodbye uncle.”

The journey to the North was by boat and Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel more and more dread every time the sun rose and set. To try and calm herself, she spent her evenings sparring on the deck of the ship with Nymeria, who had agreed to come North with Oberyn, Arianne and other members of the Martell household to witness her wedding day.

As they sailed by the Fingers, it became increasingly colder and Rhaenys found herself passing over her silks and reaching for the furs more often than not. She would sit on the deck, shrouded in her little bundle while watching the sun set over Westeros. While she sat, she would think about what her life would be like in the North. What would her soon to be husband be like?

Robb Stark reportedly took after his mother instead of his father. It made Rhaenys laugh a little bit. The Stark that looked like a Tully and the Targaryen that looked like a Martell were to be married.

Once it became too cold to focus on sparring, Rhaenys stayed inside and studied the Northern houses. She would sit for hours on end with Arianne, naming the houses and their sigils until they became burned into her brain.

The two of them were sat with a pitcher of Dornish Red on a table when Rhaenys finally lost her temper while Arianne asked her about the words of House Glover.

“I’m so tired of this!” Rhaenys cried out and threw herself onto her temporary bed with a fury, burying her face in the furs. “I just want to get there. I’m sick of all this anticipation! This boat is so boring! What in Seven Hells is there to do? Is the whole of the North going to be like this?”

Arianne poured herself a glass and took a long drink. “Rhae, sweetling, calm down. Just drink, you’ll feel better.”

Rhaenys rolled over onto her back and closed her eyes. “No I won’t, I’ll feel hungover and then everything will be even worse.”

“You’ll temporarily feel better then,” Arianne shrugged and took another sip. “We’re almost at White Harbor and then we’ll continue to Winterfell on the Kingsroad.”

“At least I can ride, even if they aren’t sandsteeds,” Rhaenys conceded and pushed herself up on her elbows. “Do you think the North will be anything like Dorne?”

Arianne looked at her helplessly. “I don’t know. It can’t be worse than the Reach,” she shivered, remembering the cloying boredom that the Reach exuded. It was far too flowery to enjoy properly and Mace Tyrell was a toad that was constantly trying to suck up and show off.

Rhaenys sighed and dropped back down with an audible thump. The North was so isolated that the only stories that she heard were nightmarish tales that had Northerners fighting the dead. Once, when she and Sarella were younger, Oberyn once told a story about the Starks transforming into wolves and tearing open their enemies from throat to groin.

She knew that Eddard Stark and his wife had five children. She also knew that her father kidnapped his sister Lyanna, starting Robert’s Rebellion and that her grandfather had burned his father alive and tortured and killed his eldest brother after they demanded for Rhaegar to return to Kings Landing and be held accountable for his actions.

Doran and Oberyn had tried to hide those stories from her, but Rhaenys was no fool. She knew that the Usurper had a reason for killing her father. She had ultimately asked Ellaria, Oberyn’s paramour to tell her what had caused the rebellion. Ellaria didn’t want to tell her what happened, but Rhaenys had pleaded with her on her knees to tell her everything.

She hadn’t, not everything. Ellaria had tried to shield her from the crimes of her predecessors. She never spoke of Harrenhall, Lyanna, or what happened to Rickard and Brandon Stark. She said that when Rhaenys was older she could ask her uncles, but she never did. She read about it instead. Every single horrific detail and terrible thing that the Targaryens did to the Starks, Rhaenys had learned about.

“I’m finding myself truly regretting not writing the Stark boy,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Arianne didn’t answer; instead she amused herself with cuff of her new dress.

By the Seven she wished she had written, but when she found out that she was to wed him not long after the possibility was first proposed, it was a childish sense of rebellion that stopped her from picking up the quill.

As time went on, it became harder and harder to think about it. She wanted to write him, she desperately did, but what would she say? Would she talk about her family and their crimes? About how she was dreading marrying him? No. It was easier to pretend that it would never happen, easier for her and probably easier for him.

Instead of entertaining the possibility of communicating with him, she sat in her room, twirling the pen between her fingers and tried to come up with the words that expressed what she felt inside.

“Do you think they’ll hate me?” Rhaenys asked, staring up at the ceiling. “My family destroyed the Starks. They should hate me.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon Rhae.” Arianne replied, taking another sip of wine.

Rhaenys closed her eyes tightly, trying not to let her tears escape. “Yes, I suppose we will.”

 

***

 

When Robb woke up that morning, all he could think about was Rhaenys Targaryen. She was to arrive in hours and he couldn’t help the churning feeling in his stomach when he thought about her.

Theon had spent the past two moons teasing him about his impending marriage, offering to send him to his favorite whore in Wintertown to get some lessons. Robb had ignored him each time it had been brought up, but he couldn't ignore what would happen today. 

He pushed back his furs and sat up, rubbing his face with both hands, trying desperately to wake himself up.

Rhaenys Targaryen was probably in the same state as he was, wondering about him the same way he was thinking about her. What would she be like? Would she be more like Arya, a rebellious girl who would probably slit his throat in his sleep, or would she be like Sansa, a perfect lady who couldn’t bear to get the hem of her dress dirty.

Was she tall or short? Did she take after the Targaryens of old with white blonde hair and violet eyes, or was she dark haired and dark eyed like the Martells?

Robb splashed his face with icy cold water and rose from his bed, dressing as quickly as he could.

When he went down to the Great Hall, he could see his mother trying to convince his youngest brother Rickon to finish a bowl of porridge and his sisters bickering over something that he imagined was nonsense.

“Robb, tell Arya that Princess Rhaenys isn’t a warrior, she’s a lady.” Sansa, his little sister called out, with a frown across her forehead.

“No Robb, tell Sansa that Dornish women are fighters like Nymeria of Ny Sar! And she’s a Targaryen too, and Visenya and the first Rhaenys were dragon riders! She’ll be like them!” Arya replied leaping to her feet and turning to face him, hair in disarray and dirt stains across her dress.

“I haven’t met her yet, so I can’t exactly tell you what she’s like,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll be kind.”

Sansa huffed loudly and muttered something under her breath very un-ladylike. Robb flashed her a lazy grin, but she ignored him. Arya let out a small giggle that she stifled when Sansa shot her a look and continued eating as Robb took a seat next to his mother.

She smiled softly at him, and kept trying to convince Rickon to eat, while he stubbornly shook his head and kicked his feet.

“Are you ready for today?” Mother asked, seemingly giving up on Rickon.

Robb shrugged helplessly. “I’ve known this was coming for six years, I’m as ready as I think I’ll ever be.” He sat back and reached for a bread roll, biting down hard as Bran came running through the doors, face bright red and clothes haphazard.

“Father says that he wants to see you in his solar Robb, with mother too,” he called out, voice echoing through the hall. Bran flushed and stopped running as everyone turned to look him.

Grabbing an apple, Robb rose from his seat, ruffling Rickon’s hair and headed to the solar while his mother turned to say a few words to Arya, whose face fell. By the tone, he was sure it was scolding.

Like so many times before, his father bade him to enter, but unlike other times he was stood looking at the fire that crackled and danced over the logs in the mantle place.

“Father? You wished to see me?” Robb took a bite of the apple as his mother stepped through the door behind him.

“Yes,” Father turned and Robb could see the concern that was evident on his face. “Can you shut the door?” He directed that towards Mother and the pit that had been growing in Robb’s stomach expanded into a chasm. When they were alone in the room, his father stayed silent.

Robb bit the inside of his cheek –it was becoming something of a habit now- and spoke. “What’s wrong?”

“The Martell party is arriving today, as I hope you are aware. Behind them, our bannermen and some envoys from the crown. Jon Arryn is due tomorrow and the King’s brothers a few days after,” Father said, turning his attention back to the flames.

 “I know.”

“And this means that you will soon be married.”

Robb didn’t like to think about that, so he stayed silent. It was true though, in a little more than a week, he would be wed to a woman who he had never met, never even spoken to in letters or otherwise.

In his defense, he was ten when the betrothal was confirmed and he didn’t consider the ramifications of not writing to his intended bride and he constantly put it off. Now, mere hours away from meeting her, he realized that he had been childish and that he should have at least sent a friendly greeting. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be feeling so awkward.

“As I’m sure that you are aware, Rhaenys Targaryen has had her fair share of sorrows. From what I have heard from Doran Martell, she rightfully fears the crown and it’s allies,” Father finally turned away from the fire and looked Robb in the eye. “She also fears us. She is frightened that she will be mistreated for the crimes of her family. She believes that we will hate her.”

For burning his grandfather, torturing his uncle and kidnapping and raping his aunt. Robb could understand why she would think such a thing, he would probably feel the same if he was in a similar position.

His mother crossed the solar to stand next to his father and clasped his hand, glancing at Robb. “It will not be easy, the first few weeks. Try to create a rapport. Find mutual interests, talk, initiate conversations,” Mother smiled reassuringly but Robb couldn’t help feel like he was a child again, the same age as Rickon. They way they spoke to him was like they were talking to a tactless child.

“She’s a woman in a strange land and she will be surrounded by strange people. It will not be easy for her. Try to welcome her.”

“I was in a similar position when I first married your father. I was a southern girl who had never truly experience the cold bite of the northern wind.” Mother said, watching for any sign that he was no longer paying attention. “It will not be easy at first for either of you, but time will pass and affection will grow.”

 _Perhaps even love,_ Robb thought to himself but shook the thought from his head. _I’ve not even met the girl; I’m not so foolish as to talk of love._

“You do understand, don’t you Robb?” she said, concern etched upon her brow.

“Of course I do mother, father. May I return to the great hall, I still haven’t eaten.” In truth he didn’t have the stomach for it and he hid the apple behind his back. His parents appeared too distracted to notice and waved him away.

When Robb left the solar, he went not to the great hall, but to the godswood. He knelt before the heart tree and began to pray.

 

***

           

Winterfell was much larger than Rhaenys had anticipated. The castle loomed dramatically over her and the horse that she was seated on. Behind her, the youngest of Oberyn’s daughters were in the wheelhouse, poking their heads out the window, staring up at the snow-covered keep.

None of them had ever seen snow before. When Elia, Obara, Dorea and Loreza stepped from the boat and onto the Northern land at White Harbor, they wanted to jump right into the drifts, regardless of the cold.

It lost its novelty quite quickly, as Rhaenys found herself shivering despite her heavy furs.

The procession entered the gates and Rhaenys spurred her horse so she was right after Oberyn, almost trying to hide behind him. As their horses rounded the gates, she could see what must have been the entire Winterfell household standing in the courtyard in silence.

Lord Stark was in center, looking almost the same as the last time that she’d seen him. His face was more lined, his hair was dotted with streaks of grey and from her perspective as a grown woman, he looked shorter than he used to, but she supposed that she was only three, and everyone seemed tall.

Beside him must have been his wife, Lady Stark. Dressed in grey, with a cloak that was potentially thicker and warmer than the one Rhaenys was wearing. She was beautiful; with long Tully red hair and it made Rhaenys feel terribly self-conscious of her own travel weary appearance.

On the other side of Lady Stark must have been her son, Robb Stark. He took after his mother, with curly dark red hair that fell was pushed back from his eyes. He was not unattractive. In fact he was very good looking, but appeared younger than he probably was because he was clean-shaven. Rhaenys could feel tension that she must have forgotten was there dissolve. He seemed to be avoiding meeting her eyes.

The rest of the Stark children, save for the eldest girl looked increasingly impatient. Sansa, her name was. Rhaenys had heard that she’d had several marriage proposals already. She was very pretty, but seemed slightly false. Almost like she was too perfect. There was not a hair out of place.

The youngest girl –Arya, or so she’d heard- kept glancing behind her at someone standing with the servants. The hem of her skirt was covered in mud and it made Rhaenys want to laugh out loud. She had made a similar mistake many times, but with the Dornish silks that she had grown up with, tearing them when she stepped on them by accident.

The boys were shifting in place, nudging one another as they looked at all the horses and knights that trotted into the courtyard. Brandon, the older of the two was enthralled by Daemon Sand, whose sword gleamed from it’s place on honor at his side.

Rickon, the smallest of the Starks instead stared unabashed at Nymeria, who had ridden in alongside Rhaenys. He whispered something to Brandon and the other boy had given him an elbow to the ribs.

Oberyn slid down from his horse and the Stark household bowed quickly. Lord Stark stepped forward. “Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Oberyn,” he began. “We at are your service.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Oberyn replied with what Rhaenys imaged was a wry smile. As he approached Lord Stark, one of the Martell bannermen turned and helped Rhaenys down from her horse with some remaining dignity.

She readjusted her skirts and pulled her braid over her left shoulder, trying to keep her back straight and chin up. Arianne had told her that when she was to enter Winterfell, to pretend that everyone was beneath her.

Rhaenys stepped towards Lord Stark and he bowed. “I trust your journey was pleasant Princess Rhaenys?”

“Yes, it was. Thank you Lord Stark,” she replied, trying to keep her voice even.

He nodded, with a small reassuring smile on his face. She moved to Lady Stark, who did a small bow. “It is wonderful to meet you Princess Rhaenys,” she said.

“And you too, Lady Stark.”

Next to her was the one person the Rhaenys was most nervous to meet. Robb Stark was a little bit taller than she, with blue eyes and a shadow of a beard on his jaw. His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but was unsure if he was permitted to.

She offered her hand and he lifted it to his mouth to kiss it. “Princess Rhaenys,” he said.

“Lord Stark,” she replied, “how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, and you? Your journey wasn’t too tiring?”

Rhaenys shook her head. “No, not at all.”

As she greeted the rest of the Starks, Rhaenys felt as if she was watching someone else doing everything. Her body was on autopilot, moving around with no instructions from her mind. It was like she was being controlled by something completely different, something that was not her.

"Prince Oberyn, I’m sure your journey was quite long and arduous. I’m sure my wife would be happy to escort you to your chambers.” Lord Stark said and it was like new life was breathed into the Courtyard. Everyone began to move around and Lady Stark turned to Rhaenys, Arianne and the rest of the Martell entourage.

“Princess Rhaenys, I’m sure my son will be happy to escort you to your rooms,” Lady Stark said.

Rhaenys nodded and smiled tightly as Robb Stark offered his arm. She accepted and he led her out of the courtyard and into the guesthouse.

At first, the walk was silent and uncomfortable and Rhaenys was far more interested in the architecture of the castle then speaking. However, as they journeyed farther into the keep, she realized it was far warmer than she imagined and eventually her curiosity got the better of her.

"Winterfell is much milder than I expected, I was wondering why?” she asked Robb, keeping her eyes straight ahead, trying not to look at him. Every time she did, her legs shook and she did not want to appear weak.

“It was built almost eight thousand years ago on natural hot springs. It’s far warmer than almost any other keep in the North,” Robb replied in a similar, even voice. “There are hot springs in the godswood that are boiling even in the worst winters.”

“So the rooms inside of the keep are just as warm?” When she had left Dorne, Rhaenys had been prepared to dress in furs for the rest of her life, but now she found herself getting a little bit too hot underneath all her layers. It would be a welcome relief to be able to wear less, as the Northern clothes were ridiculously heavy.

“Yes, but probably nothing compared to the Sunspear.”

Comparing Sunspear to Winterfell was like comparing night and day. It wasn’t really possible. “No, not at all. I don’t think that it’s fair to think of the two as anything but the opposite of one another.”

“Fire and ice,” he said and Rhaenys could have sworn that he gave her arm a comforting squeeze but it must have been her imagination. “Both are equally as dangerous in very different ways.”

She didn’t say anything else; she didn’t know what to reply with. However, Robb had a small smile on his face that hadn’t been there earlier and the two of them continued to the chambers in silence, but unlike earlier -when each step was increasingly awkward and the dread grew in her stomach- this quiet was companionable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma real quick defend myself about the ages, I wasn't super comfortable writing everyone with their book canon ages, so like the show, I aged up. A lot. Hit me up if I made any mistakes and I'll do my best to fix them, but basically the story really starts in 300 AC (in canon both my main characters are dead by then!) If you have any questions, comments or even suggestions, I'll do my best to answer!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and I'll do my best to update in a timely manner!


	4. THE VIPER STRIKES

To be truthful Rhaenys didn’t mind the cold in Winterfell. While thinking about the North when she was warm and cozy in Dorne, she pictured it being so cold that she would freeze to death in hours if she even stepped outside. Instead, she found herself enjoying the crisp bite of the wind in the mornings and the thin layers of snow that crunched underfoot when she wandered through the keep.

When she awoke, it became a game to her to look out the window and see if it had snowed the night before. During the week leading up to her wedding, it snowed far more than she thought ever possible. Even though they were summer snows, they still were high enough to cause the hem of her gowns to be soaked by the end of the day.

She passed her days sitting in the guesthouse with her cousins, finishing her maiden cloak. They sewed for hours, Rhaenys added some fur to the lining so she wouldn't freeze as she walked through the snow, while Nymeria haphazardly added suns to the train and Arianne complained mercilessly about the cold and the snow and how terrible she found it in the North.

“It’s not that bad,” Nymeria said as Arianne threw down her needle and thread for the third time to complain about the weather. “At least it isn’t winter yet.”

“It’s the North, it’s going to be freezing all the time! I don’t know how you’ll survive!” Arianne wailed, throwing her head back so that her dark ringlets bounced. “I’m so cold!”

Rhaenys turned to look at her. “I don’t mind it really. It’s beautiful in a dreary, bleak kind of way. The way the sun shines off the snow and the icicles hang off the archways, it is quite lovely.”

“Imagine it in winter? The whole keep will be so covered in snow; you won’t be able to leave! The doors will be barred by the weight!” Arianne paused and sat up straighter, glancing at Rhaenys. “I wonder what North men do to keep warm. I’m sure that you’ll find out soon enough,” Arianne muttered, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Winter is Coming, isn’t it Rhae,” Nymeria replied, craning her neck forwards to look at her little cousin.

Rhaenys rolled her eyes and put down the cloak. “Arianne stop being crude and complaining, Nymeria, stop antagonizing her. I’m trying to make the most of my future here. I will not complain about my life, the snow or my husband.”

The room became silent. Arianne looked like she was about to begin sulking and Rhaenys stood. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”

She left the room without a second thought, sweeping her thick furs over her shoulders so she could go outside. She pulled the hood up, covering the braided crown that her hand maiden had plaited that morning and shielded her face from the strong wind.

Rhaenys didn’t know where to go. She felt like an intruder everywhere. Winterfell was a maze and it was difficult to work out where she was going. The Sept was Lady Catelyn’s place, the Glass Gardens were filled with people getting the feast together for her wedding and she couldn’t face going into the great hall and seeing all the people who were in there. She couldn’t stay in the guesthouse either or go to the tiltyard, not while Oberyn was sparring with some of the Martell guards. He would ask what was wrong.

The godswood would be quiet and she wouldn’t have to explain why she was there to anybody. Rhaenys quickly entered through the gates, and found herself surrounded by more trees than she could have fathomed ever existing in the North.

When she was child, she would hide in the Red Keep godswood for hours while her grandfather raged and burned people in the throne room. It was her happy place, where she couldn’t hear the screams.

Rhaenys walked through the trees, hearing the snow crunch beneath her feet. It was much darker in the woods than anywhere in Winterfell, and the shadows from the trees made Rhaenys’ heart race.

She nearly screamed when she saw the tree. It was tall and looming with red sap dripping from the face carved into it. A small pool of black water was beneath, probably cold as ice and reflected the face. Its eyes stared deep into her soul and the melancholy way it was carved made her feel terribly lonely. Rhaenys stepped closer and squinted when a voice came from behind her.

“It’s called a heart tree,” Rhaenys span around to see Robb Stark standing behind her with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Pardon me?” she replied, trying to calm her racing heart.

“The tree, it’s called a heart tree. Northerners pray before them. It’s said that no man can tell a lie before a weirwood heart tree,” Robb said, taking a tentative step towards her. She ignored it and kept her eyes on the tragic face.

“They used to have one in the godswood at the Red Keep. It was carved out of oak,” Rhaenys replied. “Nobody ever prayed to it. They just used to avoid it. Even the Kingsguard tried to stay away. My Uncle Llewyn used to say that a godswood was no place for southerners. Once, Aerys threatened to have it cut down and burnt in the courtyard.”

Robb let out a chuckle. “I always wondered why the south had heart trees as a child, but my mother told me that before the Andals arrived, all of Westeros worshipped the old gods.”

She furrowed her brow. The only things that she was taught was the Targaryen dynasty and the history of house Nymeros Martell.

"They cut down all the heart trees and burned the stumps so that even the men and women who truly worshiped the old gods had them taken away."

“And then the Targaryen’s conquered,” she said. “And even the Seven weren’t safe.”

Robb fell silent and Rhaenys wanted to kick herself for ruining what seemed to be a perfectly polite conversation.

“There is a sept in Winterfell princess, if you wanted somewhere to worship,” Robb said, digging the toe of his boot into the snow. “I’m not trying to tell you that you aren’t welcome here, but the Seven don’t usually listen to prayers made before the heart tree.”

“I wasn’t praying, I just wanted to be alone,” Rhaenys replied, turning around to face him properly.

He was handsome, far more handsome than she had imagined. His reddish brown hair had snowflakes dusting it and his jaw was square and the stubble that he hadn’t shaved since she arrived was a few shades darker than the rest of his hair. He looked older than his years and for a few precious seconds, Rhaenys found herself not minding that she was going to be marrying him. She met his eyes for a moment before he looked away to the snow covered ground.

“I apologize, I shall leave you to your thoughts.”

He turned to leave and Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel desperate. He was going to be her husband and they couldn’t even hold thirty-second conversation with it becoming uncomfortable.

“No please,” she called out and Robb stopped in his tracks. “You don’t have to go. I don’t mind talking with you.”

“As you wish Princess,” he said and looked back towards her with a wry smile.

“You don’t have to call me Princess, I’m no longer an heir to the Iron Throne.” Correcting him felt awkward, but she resolved that it had to be done.

“You’re the daughter of Princess Elia Martell, you’re still Dornish Princess,” he replied, fully facing her and smiling wryly. "It wouldn't be right to not address you by your proper title."

“We’re to be wed, you can’t call me Princess Rhaenys forever.”

He laughed softly. “Then you can’t call me Lord Stark.”

“I shall be just plain Rhaenys then, and you shall be just plain Robb,” she said decidedly and stuck her hand out.

Robb grasped her hand and shook it once. “It’s wonderful to meet you, just plain Rhaenys.”

“And it’s wonderful to meet you, just plain Robb.”

Rhaenys pressed her lips together to hold in the giggles that threatened to erupt. “Isn’t this ridiculous? We’re to be married in less than a moons turn and this is the longest conversation that we’ve had and half of it has been us reintroducing ourselves to each other.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds mad,” he laughed along with her.

Once the two of them calmed down, Robb asked her about Dorne. “Do you miss it?”

“I think I do. I miss the warmth and the sand and the clothes. Right now the biggest chore is the amount of work it takes to dress in the morning,” Rhaenys pulled at the heavy woolen skirts and fur cloak around her neck. “When I was back home, it took less than five minutes to dress. Now, I have so many layers that it’s nightmare to even change my boots.”

“I suppose men are luckier,” Robb replied. “At least we can dress on our own. Unless we’ve just been brutally beaten in a sparring match.”

Rhaenys smiled softly. “My uncle Oberyn teaches all his daughters to wield a weapon before letting them learn embroidery.”

Part of Rhaenys wanted to see what her soon to be husband’s opinion was on women who could fight their own battles, the other part wanted to share part of Dorne. It always felt better to talk about her past than to shroud herself in the memories.

“That sounds like the Mormonts,” he said. “And I’m sure that my little sister Arya would love to spend more time your cousins. She is always trying to convince my father to let her have a sword.”

“The Mormonts of Bear Island?” Rhaenys asked, “I didn’t know that the women were warriors. I thought that it was just a legend.”

“Aye, my father invited Maege Mormont and her daughters to the wedding. They visited once a few years ago; Arya wouldn’t leave the eldest daughter, Dacey alone. She chased her around the keep for days, begging to hold her weapon. The second daughter, Alysane has claimed that a bear fathered her two children," at Rhaenys' shock, he smiled.

"Surely she lies?"

Robb gave her a half smile. "Many have asked, but she has never revealed the father. It is said that she is a skin changer and can transform into a great monstrous bear."

"Is there really such a thing?" Rhaenys asked with wonder.

"I’m sure that you can ask Maege and Dacey all about it yourself, they arrived days ago with the other Lords.”

Rhaenys thought back to the last group to pass through the gates of Winterfell. Every time banners were spotted from a distance, the households were called together to greet the visitors. Rhaenys had pleaded an minor illness when the envoys of the King had arrived. It wasn't quite a lie, she had felt terribly sick and had no desire to look at the Baratheon brothers or the banners that had called for her death.

But when the Northern houses had arrived, it was her duty to stand and welcome them to Winterfell. Banner after banner came through the gates and each house was announced by a herald. Instead of standing with her Martell family, she was placed at Robb's side. They had been courteous, but distant and by the time the last party had greeted the Starks, Rhaenys was ridiculously drained. It was not an easy thing to do, stand with a vacant smile on one's face while being faced with people who had fought against her family and their title.

She looked away, her cheeks turned red. “Somehow, I don’t think that we will be doing a lot of talking,” she murmured and Robb fell silent.

“I know that you didn’t have a choice in this Rhaenys, but I will try to be a good husband,” he said quietly. He moved closer to her, looking at her seriously. “I won’t dishonor you, or raise a hand to you-”

Rhaenys reached her hand out to touch his and stop him. “You didn’t have a choice either. Both of us have been told what we are to do with our lives by a King who is frightened by a name.”

 “When my father first told me that I was to wed to you, I resented it and I resented you. I thought that it was unfair that I had to be married to a Targaryen.” Robb said, glancing away as if he didn’t want to meet her eye.

“You were young. I was the same. I wanted to rage and scream and tell my uncle that it was unfair. I didn’t want to live in the North where the sun never shone,” Rhaenys replied and Robb began to laugh.

“You thought that the sun never shone?”

“In my defense, I had only heard stories of the Long Night. My uncle Oberyn once told us that all the Starks could transform into wolves and then rip the throats from their enemies.”

Robb laughed even louder, “Wolves? That’s like saying the Lannisters can turn into lions or the Targaryens can transform into dragons!”

Rhaenys flushed, even though she knew that it was a good-natured jest. “I lived in Dorne, how was I supposed to know that it was just a story?”

“It’s quite obvious that it’s false, is it not? Turning into wolves, that sounds like something our old nursemaid would tell us to get us to go to bed!”

She bit her lip trying to keep a straight face, but it wasn’t easy. “I’ve heard stranger stories, Robb.” She savored the name as it passed her lips and if it surprised him to hear her say it, he didn’t show it. Instead he pondered her question for a few moments.

“Like?”

“Dragons for one. If lived in the time before Aegon the Conqueror had landed in Westeros I certainly wouldn’t believe that dragons even existed, let alone had riders,” she looked to the sky and pointed towards it. “Imagine it, a roar so faint that you wouldn’t be sure if it was in your head or not. Then birds would flee the branches that they had made their homes on.”

Robb seemed to understand where she was going immediately and continued the story. “The rumble would grow increasingly louder and the snow would begin to melt. The skin under your collar would grow increasingly warmer until it became unbearable.”

“Wings would flap, creating a wind strong enough to sweep a man off their feet.”

“Then, it would appear soaring through the sky lighter than air. A great big lizard with wings,” Robb had keep a straight face until the last sentence, but than a crack appeared and he dissolved into laughter.

She began to giggle too until the two of them were laughing so hard that any attempt at a rational, well mannered conversation between a lord and a lady was long gone. The two of them left the godswood arm in arm, feeling much less nervous impending marriage than they had when they entered.

 

***

 

The tiltyard was not a pleasant place to be after a heavy snowfall. It would turn to ice, then to slush much quicker than anywhere else in the Keep and it became downright unpleasant. However it was nearly always deserted because nobody wanted to spar in such weather.

It was the ideal time to practice, with nobody around to distract or irritate in the case of his little brothers who relished badgering him. He loved them, of course he did, but they drove him mad.

Robb had woken up that morning with a strong resolve to practice. The sun had not yet risen when he had found himself lying awake, glaring at the ceiling. He had been sleeping poorly lately, whether it was the anticipation of the wedding or another foreign cause that was stopping him from getting his much needed rest.

He had not yet truly wielded a weapon since the Martells had arrived and he missed the familiar weight of it in his hands. Instead he had been with his father or speaking with the other guests about something or another.

The only reprieve he had received in the past few weeks was when he went to the godswood. Sometimes he would pray, but other times he would enjoy the blessed moments that he had alone.

It was there that he saw Rhaenys the day before. The pair of them hadn’t properly spoken since her arrival and he wouldn’t lie and say that it wasn’t nice to see her away from the stares and the pressures of the castle and its inhabitants.

It was interesting to hear about her misconceptions about his home, to listen to her speak without guarding her words. He wished that he could have spoken with her even more, but she was a difficult woman to find and after they had said their goodbyes, she had disappeared.

By the time he was washed and changed, the sun was beginning to filter into the room and Robb knew that he would have to move quickly lest he be summoned to help with the ledgers once more. He was well aware that it was inevitable, that he would have to do them eventually but that were mind numbingly boring.

When he stepped into the tiltyard, it was still deserted. There were no servants moving about to prepare for the coming days, no drunken lords on their way back to their beds. Even Rodrik Cassel had not yet made an appearance.

Pulling his sword from its sheath, Robb began to strike one of the training dummies on as it leant helplessly upon its stake.

He hacked and thrust into it, breathing hard with each hit. The weapon grew heavy in his hands and his arms began to ache, but he still didn’t stop. He could control his sword, control his words, but he couldn’t control his destiny.

“It is an easy thing to fight an enemy who can’t retaliate.”

At the sound, Robb span around, heart in his throat, sword at the ready.

Behind him stood Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper. His arms were crossed and he arched a brow in amusement.

“Prince Oberyn,” Robb composed himself, pointing the tip of his sword to the ground and inclining his head in deference. “It is also easy not to fight anyone at all. I prefer to be prepared.”

“Aye, it is always good to be prepared. You never know what kind of… problems one might run into. The only reason Rhaenys lived was because her mother was prepared for the worst.”

He was trying to unnerve Robb, to make him uncomfortable. It wouldn’t work.

“Then we must thank the gods that she was,” Robb replied, keeping his tone as neutral as the Red Viper himself.

_There are rumors that he poisons his blades, that he is one of the deadliest swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Oberyn Martell is truly not a man to be trifled with,_ Robb thought with increasing clarity. _And I am alone with him, without armor._

“Indeed,” he said, taking a step closer. “I wonder if you would care to spar with me. I have not practiced in quite some time and I’m sure that a Northerner could teach me a new trick or two.”

He desperately did not want to spar with him. He was nowhere good enough to battle the Prince of Dorne, who had trained with the Second Sons, but he knew that Oberyn was waiting for him to appear a craven.

“If you wish, I will deliver.” Even as Robb spoke the words, he regretted them, desperately wanting to will them out of existence.

“Excellent!” He was shocked, but he hid it well, pulling a sword from his scabbard. “I trust that you and I will keep this little practice bout between ourselves. My dear niece would worry so.”

“Live steel?” He couldn’t even form a sentence properly.

“What else would we use? We are both men, are we not?”

Robb nodded, struck dumb. The way he handled a sword, even when it was not in battle was impeccable. He lifted his own, painfully aware that it was but a dulled practice sword while his opponent’s was honed to be deadly. It was then that he realized that he was not in armor, but just wearing his doublet and tunic. They would do very little to stop a killing blow.

They took their positions opposite one another; Oberyn was still as a statue while Robb tried to stop himself from shaking. He should have said no, there was nothing at stake, no honor driving him forward. It was simply a false sense of pride, of feeling that there was something to lose if the uncle of his betrothed did not approve of him.

The Viper struck, lashing out quicker than Robb thought possible. It was sheer luck alone that he managed to parry the blow in time.

The duel was a dance, one that Robb was sorely unprepared for. Each time he made a move to hit the Prince, it was defended and than quickly paid back in kind. Robb viewed it as a gift from the gods that he had not yet lost a hand.

The steel sang loudly when it clashed and the light from the rising sun reflected off the swords and sent beams of sunlight across the tiltyard. It would have been truly beautiful had not been his neck on the block.

Robb cried out when Oberyn hit him in the mouth with his elbow, splitting his lip. Blood filled his mouth and he cringed.

“Do you yield?” the Prince asked cheerfully.

_Yes, yes, yes!_ “No.” Robb spat the blood into the slush and red mixed with the mud and remainder of snow, dying it crimson for just a few moments.

“Alright,” Oberyn shrugged as he danced away out of reach of his blade.

He had not yet managed to land a blow upon his opponent, but with the taste of blood still salty on his tongue, he had the urge to repay it.

The spar continued, both equally matched for a short period of time but while Robb tired, Oberyn didn’t, instead moving with the grace and ease of a much younger man. He had seen battle; he knew how to pace himself while Robb was nothing but a mere greenboy.

Each time his attack was parried, Robb could feel his arms tremble with exertion. He would not be able to duel much longer, so he might as well try to make the most of his chance.

He feinted to the right and while Oberyn moved to defend his side, drove his sword through to the left. Instead of defeating him, the Viper knocked him to the ground hard with a blow using the flat edge of his sword against his ribs. He landed hard, hitting his head and rolling until he was on his back with the breath knocked from his lungs. The sword skittered away across the ground and Oberyn stood above him, the conquering hero. His sword was at Robb’s throat.

“Yield,” Oberyn said, point digging into his skin. “It wasn’t a bad attack, but you were overzealous, you didn’t defend yourself. It’s one of the first rules of sword fighting. Don’t expose yourself at the expense of defeating your opponent.”

He knew that. Rodrik had taught that to him and Jon long before they had even touched a weapon.

“Though I must admit, you weren’t as bad as I’d expected,” Oberyn began, not moving his blade. He continued speaking, but the rush of blood to his head drowned the words out.

Robb tried to pay attention, but was more focused on the sword hovering just inches away from his neck. It was deadly sharp and more than capable of slitting his throat.

“Uncle!” Both of them turned to see Rhaenys standing in a plain dark red dress and grey cloak, looking horrified. He could imagine how it looked, especially with him appearing helpless as he was.

“Ah, Rhaenys. Would you care to join us?” Oberyn moved his blade to the side and Robb breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sure Lord Robb won’t mind.”

“No. I would not. Uncle, would you please let him up?” It was a question, but Rhaenys said it like it was non-negotiable. The prince took a step away and drove his sword into the ground. It was a comforting thing to watch, even though Robb did not doubt it was still equally as deadly.

“Do you yield?” Oberyn repeated.

Heart pounding, Robb nodded. “Yes, I yield.”

“Good,” Oberyn said as he held out a hand to help Robb from the ground. He took it and was hauled up. Before he let go of his hand, he pulled him closer in a twisted sort of embrace. Quietly he spoke into Robb’s ear in a menacing tone. “I was not happy when my brother told me of this marriage. I did not trust you, your family, or Robert Baratheon. She has faced many hardships, many betrayals, but my niece seems to trust you and that is enough for me. For now.”

Robb swallowed hard and nodded his head. He went to turn when Oberyn grabbed his shoulder.

“However, if you dare hurt her, I will not hesitate to drive my blade through your skull. Do not forget that, Lord Robb.”

He pulled his sword from the dirt and sheathed it, granting Robb some much needed peace of mind. As he passed her, he patted Rhaenys on the shoulder, whispering something in her ear that she ignored, instead choosing to stride over to him.

“How long did you watch for?” he asked, sure that he had made a fool of himself in front of her. His head ached and his side throbbed, but the worst hurt was that of his honor.

“Long enough. That was a stupid thing to do,” she hissed, looking him up and down. “He could have seriously injured you!”

“As you can see, the only thing injured is my pride,” he jested and she poked him hard in the side. He sucked in a breath at the sudden intrusion of pain.

“Yes and your ribs. Why did you do it?” The question was simple enough, but he didn’t know how to answer. So he didn’t, instead spitting a mouthful of blood into the dirty snow and shrugging his shoulder which he regretted immediately.

In truth, he didn’t know why he accepted. A skewed sense of honor, fear that her uncle who she loved so much would not accept him, drinking too much the night before. If he ever sorted through the plethora of reasons that warped together in his mind, she would be the first to know.

Rhaenys rolled her eyes and gestured for him to step past her. “You ought to go inside before anyone realizes what happened.”

“Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was grateful for. He didn’t move however, choosing to look at her. “I mean it.”

She didn’t reply, instead reaching up an ungloved hand to tenderly brush away a drop of blood away from his split lip. Rhaenys had a light touch, careful, like she was afraid that she was hurting him. A stubborn jealous little voice in his head asked how many times she had found herself in a similar situation but he silenced it, focusing only on her.

He caught Rhaenys’ hand with his own and softly ran his thumb along her knuckles. It was in that instant that he realized he wanted to kiss her. He should kiss her. They were to be married; he was allowed to kiss her.

She looked up at him with her wide brown eyes that seemed to see right through him and all he wanted to do was kiss her. But he couldn’t.

“I should go,” he said and tried to look anywhere but her, anywhere but her eyes, anywhere but her midnight hair, anywhere but her perfect face. Robb turned quickly and paced out of the courtyard like a craven, leaving her behind.


	5. WHISPERS

Arya Underfoot was very good at being quiet when she wanted to. She could sneak around the Keep without being seen, eavesdrop on Sansa and Jeyne Poole and once scaled a wall to stay hidden, though she had found that it was more Bran’s talent than hers.

So when she saw Robb leaving his rooms, she followed him. Unlike Sansa he was always doing something interesting, sparring or speaking with Jon and Theon about something she wasn’t supposed to overhear.

The only reason she was awake was pure unadulterated excitement. With the wedding, there were so many people about the Keep and it was fascinating to watch them, to learn about them. She rose early and bedded down late so that she always knew what was going on.

When Stannis Baratheon had argued with his younger brother Renly after the youngest had indulged in too much wine, she was watching. When one of the Dornish knights had fallen asleep at the feast following the long arduous journey, she was watching and when her father had met with Jon Arryn in the godswood, she wasn’t just watching. She was listening too.

She didn’t like eavesdropping on her father, but sometimes it was a necessity. He always spoke of interesting things like wars and duels and the occasional deserter that would have to be executed. If he caught her, like he often did, he would be disappointed by her choices. Her face would turn solemn and her would look her in the eyes, grey meeting grey, and ask her why she did it. Arya would apologize and promise never to do it again. He would set a punishment and they would continue about their day.

Arya could not truly remember what they had spoken about. She only knew that it was terribly dull. She had heard Jon Arryn discussing the crown’s debt and the control the Lannisters had on it but truly she didn’t care. When she had followed them, Arya had thought they would talk about the Greyjoy Rebellion or something more interesting, but they hadn’t.

It was a coincidence that she had even happened upon them leaving the Keep in the first place. Father had been speaking with a very stern Stannis Baratheon when she broke her fast. Stannis was the Lord of Ships and Arya had always liked the idea of travelling across the Narrow Sea so she had listened to their conversation.

Men called her father cold and unforgiving as the North itself but Arya disagreed. If anybody was akin to a statue it was Stannis Baratheon. Mother told her that he had a daughter, Shireen who was a few years younger than she. But Arya knew who Shireen Baratheon was, everybody did. The little girl stricken with greyscale not long after birth was a famous tale that Old Nan had told them when they misbehaved.

If she were Stannis’ daughter she would want greyscale too, just to get away.

When he was with Stannis he was not Father, he was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She had not heard much of what the pair had discussed, only knowing that the King’s brother had stormed off and father appeared to be weary afterwards.

It was then Jon Arryn had swept in like the bird his house was associated with and had mentioned something to her father.

She liked the Hand of the King. He was friendly, asking her questions about her studies and admiring the embroidery on her cloak. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that she had stolen it from Sansa moons ago, as her own embroidery was pitiful at best. Sansa didn’t notice she had so many pieces of embroidery that it would take hours to count them all.

“Sometimes I fear that Stannis has gone mad, trapped on that rock of his,” father had muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No wonder he speaks of such things.”

“When we return to King’s Landing I’m sure that he will be more agreeable. He is not happy about being sent here,” Jon Arryn replied, leading father away from the great hall. “He says that it is a waste of his time.”

She had not seen Father’s face, but she could imagine it. Stony, but hiding a great amount of irritation beneath. They had walked towards the godswood and Arya, having little more to do than sit with Septa Mordane and Sansa for the entire day decided that she would trail behind them. Considering the Hand’s age, he walked very quickly so that Arya had to run to catch up.

It was very difficult to find the perfect medium, trying to duck behind pillars and the like so she wouldn’t be spotted, but also trying to hear bits and pieces of the conversation.

“King’s Landing…more lion than stag…whore himself to an early grave…counting coppers.” The snatches of conversation made little to no sense, but Arya was not deterred. She was sure that they would start to discuss battles and the like soon enough.

When they finally reached the heart tree, Arya heard them speaking of the debt the crown was in. Six million stags seemed like an imaginary number and father was just as shocked as she.

“How can this have happened? Aerys Targaryen had so much gold in the treasury it could have buried an army alive.”

Jon Arryn shrugged helplessly. “Robert is not a frugal man. The Seven know I’ve tried to stop his excessive spending, but it is nigh impossible. I love him like my own son, I do, but he has always been one to over indulge.”

“Six million stags,” father repeated. “Where does he get it from?”

“Tis Lord Petyr Baelish who deals with such matters. The Lannisters, the Iron Bank, Mace Tyrell, all have lent the crown coin that I doubt they will get back in our lifetimes.”

Arya didn’t care about the matters of the treasury. She wanted to know about the wars and battles. When her father spoke of Robert Baratheon, he described a man of such power that she could not help but imagine a warrior of such immense skill that he could kill thousands with one swing of his war hammer.

Instead of that, they kept discussing money and eventually Arya grew so bored so left to go watch the Martell soldiers spar.

The way they fought was truly different than the northern men. Rodrik Cassel had trained Jon and Robb to fight with long swords but some of the Dornish men used spears and daggers, jabbing at their opponents hard and fast like serpents. One of the men who she truly was fascinated by was Prince Oberyn Martell.

She had watched from behind a solid wooden fence as Robb battled a wooden training dummy for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. Arya had always preferred watching duels instead of one-sided battles.

It didn’t remain one sided for long. Prince Oberyn had observed him for some time, before stepping forwards and speaking to him. Arya craned forwards to try and hear what was being said but they were too far away. All she could hear was a whisper of wind.

That was why she was shocked when Oberyn drew his sword and took position opposite her brother.

_Finally,_ Arya thought with a twisted sort of satisfaction. _It’s about time that something interesting happened around here._

With each swing, her heart leapt and the anticipation grew. The Prince was better than Robb, but he was holding own, parrying each strike and repaying it in kind. The clash of steel was music to her ears, sounding like Mikken as he forged weapons.

She jumped when Oberyn hit Robb hard with his elbow, leaning forwards to hear the exchange of words.

“Do you yield?”

Arya quietly wished out loud. “Say no, please say no.” It was fascinating to watch and much to her Mother’s dismay, she loved to sneak into the tiltyard to watch the men spar. It was infinitely more interesting than embroidering in a stuffy room while Septa Mordane fawned over Sansa and exquisite stitches.

Robb spat blood into the snow and Arya hopes dared to rise. “No.”

She pressed her lips together to stop a smile and kept watching. Now Robb’s confidence had been knocked, she had watched him spar enough that she knew the signs. His attacks were more timid; he remained on the back foot instead of making the most of his openings.

Arya saw his final attack coming from leagues away and she was sure that Prince Oberyn did as well. He was sloppy and tired so it was easy for the Dornishman to knock him to the ground hard and level his sword to his throat.

They remained still for seconds, mouths moving.

_Let him up, why aren’t you letting him up? At least take the sword away!_ Oberyn did not move and Arya rose from her hiding place slowly, fully prepared to tackle him to the ground. She didn’t mind getting a little dirty.

“Uncle!” Arya’s head shot up at the shout. It was the Princess, Robb’s betrothed. She looked positively shocked by the developments and took a few steps forward.

Arya ducked back down as Rhaenys looked in her direction. She did not move until she was sure that she hadn’t been seen and even then, only poking the top of her head up so that she could watch the rest of their interaction.

Prince Oberyn was gone; instead Robb and Rhaenys were speaking. She reached up to touch his face and Arya wrinkled her nose. Very suddenly he turned to walk towards her. Princess Rhaenys stared at his back, looking very upset.

_I wonder what it was like fighting a Prince of Dorne,_ she thought to herself as Robb passed by her oblivious. _Probably amazing._

Robb walked quickly. So quickly in fact that Arya had to run to catch up. “Why were you fighting him?”

He gave pause and turned his head to look at her. “Seven Hells Arya! Don’t you give anyone any warnings?”

“Sorry,” she shrugged and caught up with him. “How’s your head?

“You saw all that?” This time he flushed and Arya stifled a giggle.

She nodded slowly, unable to keep the smile from her face.

“Seven bloody Hells!” he swore. “Don’t tell a soul Arya.”

She was insulted. “I would never.” _I'm not Sansa, snitching to mother whenever anyone_   _does_ _something potentially inappropriate._

“Good.” Robb chewed on his lower lip and set off again, even quicker than before but she wasn’t finished.

“He could have knocked you out! What were you talking about with Princess Rhaenys? Why did she look so upset?”

Her questions came fast and she knew that she wasn’t giving him much time to reply, but she was desperate to ask. Robb didn’t answer. Instead he ignored her, something that she well versed in.

“Can’t you tell me anything?” she asked, trying to sound like Sansa. Whenever she asked for something in a certain tone of voice, Sansa got whatever she liked, which was entirely unfair.

Robb stopped and mussed up her hair. “Yes I can. Run along and cause mischief elsewhere.” Arya knew she looked affronted, but at his smirk, she was somewhat placated “I’m sure Septa Mordane is having a perfectly nice, quiet morning. I’m sure it would be a shame if someone came along and spoiled it,” she was positively devilish at the prospect.

There was plenty of trouble to get into. Perhaps she could even get Jon to join in. He had been distant lately, probably brooding about all the people that had invaded Winterfell. She began to turn but was stopped by a thought. “You owe me Robb.”

“I do,” he said, and Arya could see his shoulders shaking with laughter. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and smoothed her hair down from where he had messed it up. “What would I do without you?”

 

***

 

Rhaenys tried to forget about the tiltyard, but whenever she saw him, the memory washed over her like a wave. His eyes looking into hers, her hands in his and then suddenly she was alone.

She woke the morning before the wedding dreaming of it once more, feeling terribly frustrated, but above all, she was scared.

The dress she chose to wear was one that she had made in Dorne, soft lilac wool that had a cinched waist and a modest neckline. When she was having it dyed, she wasn’t aware that Northern women traditionally wore dark colors, but she thought it was beautiful, so she had decided on the light color. It made her stand out here, but she didn’t mind.

She brushed out her hair and braided it back to keep it from her face.

As she tied the plait off using a stray piece of leather, there was a knock on the door; she welcomed it, hoping that it would distract her from her fears. “Come in.”

Very slowly, almost as if the person was apprehensive, the door opened and Rhaenys turned from where she sat looking in the mirror to see who it was.

“Hello Princess,” came a little voice that belonged to Sansa Stark of all people. “I was wondering if you would like some help with your maiden cloak.” Her voice was quiet like she was frightened Rhaenys would snap at her.

Turning fully so she was facing Sansa, she smiled reassuringly. “I’d love the help, where can I find you later? I must break my fast first. I’m famished.”

Sansa straightened up and stopped fiddling with her sleeves. “Arya, Jeyne, Beth and I are supposed to be with Septa Mordane, but I’ll ask if she will let my sew with you in the guest house.”

“That would be lovely, would you like to walk down to the great hall with me?”

Rhaenys rose and pulled a cloak from her trunk, not noticing the light grey coloring of the Starks. “What else do you like, other than embroidery I mean?” she asked Sansa.

“I’ve always loved songs. We don’t have many bards that venture north so whenever one does arrive, I try to stay up as late as I can to hear all of the songs. One of my favorites is about Florian and Jonquil, Six Maids in a Pool.”

She had only heard it a handful of times, as it was not widely played in Sunspear, but nonetheless, Rhaenys nodded and smiled. “Tis a pretty song.”

“The other is the Mother’s Hymn. Do you know it?”

Rhaenys’ throat closed up. She did know it. Her own mother had sung it to her when she was a child as she lay in her bed with a fever. Unable to offer up words, she just nodded.

They walked onwards when Sansa spoke again. “What is it like in the south? I’ve heard that it’s wonderfully warm.” Her face was bright and her eyes, the same eyes that Robb had, were curious.

“Indeed it is. In Dorne it was so hot some days that we would sit in the fountains at the Water Gardens until the sun went down to cool off. The dresses were designed so that they would not cling to the skin and cause any unnecessary discomfort.”

“Sometimes father gets me silk dresses from the south. The last one was a present for my name day. I only wear it on special occasions,” Sansa glanced up to Rhaenys. “Mother said that I may wear it for the feast tomorrow.”

“I look forward to seeing it. I’m sure that it’s a very lovely dress.”

“Winterfell is too cold to wear silk or satin, but my mother used to wear it all the time when she was living in Riverrun. I wish I could go, but it takes so long to get anywhere that we don’t usually leave. We visited White Harbor once and father and Robb went to Last Hearth a few years ago but all I’ve ever wanted was to visit King’s Landing or even Highgarden.”

She could barely remember it. It was warm, that she knew for sure, but nothing compared to Dorne and Sunspear. Her grandmother Rhaella wore long sleeves and high-necked dresses to cover up the bruises that tattooed her arms and throat, but her mother wore a mixture between the both, light colors and delicate fabrics, cut in the style of the highborn ladies of King’s Landing.

Perhaps Rhaenys would have worn the same if she had stayed there, become her mother in miniature.

“Highgarden was a very pretty place. There was a briar labyrinth, my cousin Arianne and I got lost for hours trying to find our way through.” In truth it was the only way to amuse themselves, as all the ladies wanted to do was sip tea and gossip. Not that she begrudged them that, Olenna Tyrell had was an astute woman and Rhaenys didn’t mind sipping from a teacup while the matriarch had dissected the motivations of the people around her.

“I think that I would love Highgarden,” Sansa said wistfully. “Mother always says that I am suited for the south.”

 It seemed every occupant of Winterfell was in the great hall and Sansa greeted them all by name. She smiled serenely at them all, inquiring after families and how they slept the previous night.

“Good morning Maester Luwin, it’s a lovely day is it not?”

Maester Luwin nodded politely at them both. “It is certainly nice, Lady Sansa,” he inclined his head at Rhaenys as a greeting and she repeated the motion uncertainly back.

As Rhaenys took her seat, Sansa sat next to her. “Mother always told me that the easiest way to make people smile was to be polite to them. She instilled manners in us, it’s part of our lessons, but Arya has struggled.”

“The life of a lady is not meant for everyone,” Rhaenys replied, thinking of Obara and Sarella and even Ellaria who never called herself a lady.

Sansa shrugged, but didn’t answer, instead choosing to take a sip from the cup before her.

“Have you tried the lemon cakes?”

 

***

 

“She’s not bad looking,” Theon said as he lifted a tankard of ale from the table and took a long sip. When he put it down, he had a devilish look in his eye. “I would certainly take her for- ow! What was that for?”

Robb had punched him in the arm. Hard. “I would rather you stop talking about my…” he trailed off. He didn’t know what to call her. Was he to call her his betrothed or perhaps even his friend? Would she take offence to either of those titles? “Rhaenys like that.” He finished lamely.

Theon chortled loud enough to be heard over the bustle of the tavern. “Your Rhaenys? If I didn’t know you any better I’d say that you’ve bedded her already, but you Starks are terribly honorable. You wouldn’t dare,” he turned to Robb and tilted his head, raising his eyebrow and giving him a conspiratorial wink. “Unless you did dare.”

“Of course I haven’t,” Robb began with a scowl, but Theon interrupted.

“No you wouldn’t, her uncle would cut your cock off if you so much as looked at her wrong,” he said and drank again, draining the tankard. “The man could frighten a kraken.”

Robb ignored him and turned to Jon, who was sitting silently, looking terribly uncomfortable as one of the tavern maids made an excuse to brush against him. Theon seemed to sense a new victim and began teasing him about being so frigid.

The day had started regular as ever. Robb had broken his fast with his family in the morning, nodding politely as some of the wedding guests filed in. The rest of them were nursing some terrible headaches as they had been over indulging in ale and Dornish Red. He had not seen Rhaenys, but Sansa had gone to help her finishing her maiden cloak.

His father had asked him to assist with the ledgers once he had finished his food, a task he’d been doing far more frequently in the previous weeks. When he was finally released it was midday and he’d decided that he ought to find Rhaenys and ask her to go for a stroll through the keep. It was beginning to become a routine, that they would meet and talk. It was nothing truly riveting, but it was nice to get to know her better.

He had taken his parents advice, asking her if she would like to go for a walk, showing her around the glass gardens. They had been friendly; she had asked questions about when they had been built, why they were so warm, if they grew lemons and oranges?

They weren’t particularly difficult questions to answer, but Robb had found himself tripping over his words and sneaking peeks at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Ever since that morning in the tiltyard when he was woozy from the knock on the head he had received, he had found himself thinking about her. Part of him raged. He should have kissed her, should have swept her off her feet then and there like they would say in the songs that Sansa loved. The other part said that he was right to stop himself, that she would be insulted by his forwardness.

Robb released a breath he didn’t know that he was holding and took a sip of ale. It was rank stuff, but it was cheap and he wanted to stay as anonymous as possible. If his father knew that he was out with Theon and Jon the night before he was supposed to get married he would be fuming.

He hated disappointing his father. It was not something that happened often, Eddard Stark was not a man quick to anger, but when he did, it was the worst feelings in the world. It wasn’t that he shouted at him or beat him. His father would make him stand before him and explain why he did whatever it was he did and apologize to all of the affected people.

Once he made Sansa cry by ruining her embroidery hoop and he had to spend almost three days inside trying to fix it after apologizing profusely to her, mother and Septa Mordane.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop by a brothel. You don’t want to dissatisfy your bride on your wedding night,” Theon’s voice shook him out of his stupor. “I can introduce you to Ros.”

Robb didn’t even dignify him with an answer, instead turning to address Jon. “Do you want anything to drink? I have plenty of coin left.”

“I’m alright,” he replied, drumming the table top with his fingers and keeping his head down.

“You might as well be a eunuch Snow. What’s the point of visiting Wintertown if you don’t make use of its offerings,” Theon said, gesturing for one of the serving girls to come over and fill his tankard once more.

“Would you stop that, you’ve had enough to drink and I don’t want to carry you back to the keep,” Robb snapped and he pushed his own drink away.

With an eye roll, Theon extracted a coin from a pocket in his doublet. “Please, I’ve barely had an drop.” The maid arrived and refilled the glass and Theon gave her a slap on the backside and handed her the coin, winking. “There’s more where that came from.”

“You said that last time and you were so ill that you thought that you were dying. Remember? Maester Luwin had to come to make sure you wouldn’t expire in your bed,” Jon’s face was stony, but Robb could hear the hint of amusement in his voice.

“Shut up bastard. Just because you’ve chosen to live like a septon doesn’t mean that I have to.” Very suddenly the mood at the table shifted. Jon brooded, Theon scowled mean spiritedly and Robb wished that he were anywhere but there.

It had begun quite good-naturedly, Theon offering to buy a drink for him, as it was his last night of so called freedom. The three of them had snuck out to Wintertown without guards, just for an hour or two. At the castle, all the guests were also drinking like it was their own weddings, so it had been easy to slip away.

Theon had recommended this tavern, saying that as long as the patrons had coin, nobody cared whether you were a king or a sellsword. It was a busy place regularly he had said, but it’ll be packed the night before such an important day.

He was right, it was filled to the bursting point, but there was a jolly atmosphere. Laughter filled the air and there was a friendly yellow glow to the candles that dotted the room. It wasn’t until more and more drunken men ventured in that Robb was given cause for concern.

The more congested it got and the more they all drank, the more the conversation slipped to sensitive topics. Theon had ranted for almost half an hour about his position in Winterfell, saying that he wasn’t respected. Jon was his normal sullen self, not touching a drop and Robb was careful. He couldn’t very well attend his own wedding with a hangover. It wasn’t exactly lordly to do so.

It was then that the conversation had turned to Rhaenys and the marriage. Previously, they had skirted around the topic, but with the steady flow of drink, Theon’s tongue loosened and he became cruder and louder.

“Perhaps we ought to go,” Jon said, drumming his fingers upon the table. Patrons were turning to look at them more often. “It’s better to return than to stay here. It’s becoming rowdy.”

“Indeed,” answered Robb, rising and throwing the cloak over his shoulders. He could barely move without bumping into one of the other people surrounding them. “Come on Theon.”

“The pair of you can scamper off like cravens, but I have plenty more drink and plenty more coin and I intend to rid myself of both,” he replied with a lecherous grin.

Robb shrugged. “Stay then, but you’ll be expected at the sept by midday at the latest. I’d rather you weren’t hungover for my wedding.” Theon was his friend, brother really, but he was much too indulgent with himself.

“Don’t you worry Stark, Greyjoy’s can hold their liquor and please a woman. Can the same be said for you?”

“Goodnight Theon,” Robb replied, humoring him and left the tavern with Jon behind him.

The two of them walked in companionable silence through the streets of Wintertown. Theon was good fun, but he took very little seriously. It was Jon who Robb would find himself turning to in real struggles.

He was his father’s son and when Robb was little more than a babe, he wished that they could have switched places. He resented that he looked more Tully than Stark, less like his father, the Warden of the North and more like his mother, a southerner. He thought that it was unfair that Jon could be a bastard but still have more resemblance than the rest of the family. He outgrew that childish wish very quickly.

Talking with Jon was easy. It was like talking to Father. They would both pause; mull things over before answering a question or giving an opinion. Unlike Arya or Theon who would speak without truly thinking, Jon would take his time.

“I’m nervous,” Robb said, cutting through the silence.

“Why?” It was an annoyingly simple question, but sometimes the simplest questions had the most difficult answers.

“I don’t know.” As he spoke, a drunkard was thrown from one of the whorehouses and into the street, landing close to their feet. Jon nimbly stepped over while Robb moved around him.

There was a moment of silence while Jon pondered the weak answer. “Do you like her?”

“Yes.” She was kind, quiet and friendly. She was also beautiful. “I suppose I just wish I had more time to get to know her. It hasn’t yet been a moon’s turn. There is much more to learn about each other.”

“Plenty of other marriages have occurred in shorter periods, your parents for one,” Jon replied. “Be honest with her and I’m sure that she will reciprocate in kind.”

“Aye, well I hope that is true,” Robb said hoarsely. “Gods I hope so.”


	6. THE PROMISE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mature scenes near the end of this chapter, feel free to skip if you are uncomfortable, but other than that, enjoy!

The day of the wedding arrived and Rhaenys didn’t think that she’d ever been so conflicted. She was nervous, ridiculously so. It was like all of the process that the two of them had made would be erased by a single action.

The days before, she and Robb had gone for walks through the keep, trying to learn more about each other and it was nice. Now though, she was worried about the feast. And the bedding.

Marriage was not something that Rhaenys associated with happiness. She had thought that her mother and father loved each other, but she was a naïve child and that had been quickly rectified by Tywin Lannister. She knew that Aerys and Rhaella didn’t love each other, because even as a child, she feared being anywhere near him. Doran and Mellario had loved each other, but that had ended in resentment after Quentyn had been sent to foster with the Yronwoods.

Countless other couples had similar stories that had been told to her by Oberyn, or her mother or Mellario and it had frightened Rhaenys, more than she wanted to admit. It was not that she feared marrying Robb, that she thought he would be a terrible husband, but she worried that whatever bourgeoning relationship that the two of them shared would be cruelly ripped to shreds by the fact that neither of them had a choice in the face of the usurper and that they would grow to abhor each other.

Neither of them had a choice and she feared that he would fall in love with another and if not he, then maybe she would, and the animosity that they would feel towards each other would boil over because they were trapped. It seemed that the usurper was cleverer than she had given him credit for. It was one of her many nightmares, being trapped in a loveless marriage.

Robert Baratheon had sent his younger brothers Stannis and Renly to witness the marriage and several of the Lannister cousins had arrived a few days prior at the request of Tywin.

Jon Arryn had been one of the first to make the trek North and had been spending his days in Lord Stark’s solar discussing the finances of the crown and Robert Baratheon’s tendencies to borrow money from the wrong people.

The rest of the guests were the Northern Lords and Rhaenys’ own Dornish family who were drinking all throughout Winterfell.

Most of them were drunk before noon.

Lady Catelyn had knocked on the door of her bedchamber early that morning with two maidservants in tow, carrying a heavy bathtub and some linen between them. Now, Rhaenys was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, dragging her finger through the water as her dark hair clung to the curves of her chest.

She was alone at the moment, Catelyn was waiting outside the door to give her some privacy. Ellaria Sand was tending to her young children, Nymeria was with Arianne. Oberyn was in the Sept and she wasn’t sure about the rest of her family.

As a little girl, she loved bathing in warm water, cleansing herself of the trials of the day. It calmed her, reminded her of Elia bathing her and telling her stories while she splashed about, not even noticing the difference in temperature. But in Winterfell the chambers she sat in were heated by the hot springs, the exposed skin that remained above the water was chilled.

This would be her home, where she would raise the children that she and Robb would inevitably have and as she sat in the water, she realized that she didn’t hate it, not like she expected to. 

The water was beginning to cool when Arianne entered with the maiden cloak wrapped around her arm and a small knowing smile on her face. She looked beautiful, in a pale yellow dress that looked far to thin for a Northern wedding. “Are you ready Rhae?” She reached down to grasp her hand and used her thumb to stroke circles on the back of it.

Rhaenys turned to look at her, causing the water to lap against the sides of the bathtub. “Not at all, but that doesn’t matter, does it?” She rose, letting the water run off her in rivulets and drip down onto the stone floor.

One of the maidservants rushed forwards holding a brush and something to dry her off with while another brought forth the gown she would be wed in.

The dress was beautiful, a crisp snow white with grey wolves running along the hem and a neckline decorated with such delicate embroidery that it must have taken days. Lady Catelyn told her that Lord Stark had once given it to her when she married him, but she had put it away after she had Robb. Catelyn told Rhaenys that she had spent her evenings altering it for her to wear in the Sept. Traditionally, she said that brides would wear samite or silk, but it was far too cold to do so in the Winterfell sept, so she was given a soft light lambswool.

Rhaenys wanted to cry. As lovely and welcoming as Catelyn had been, she desperately needed her mother. The longing had come sharply and it had slammed into her like an arrow to the heart.

It should have been her mother braiding her hair so it was pulled softly from her face. It should have been her mother helping her into the dress. It should have been her mother brushing tears from her eyes, marvelling at how much Rhaenys had changed growing up. It should have been her mother embracing her tightly. 

Elia Martell should have been at her side, at the marriage of her only daughter, walking with her to the Sept and kissing her on the forehead before letting her go to wed.

Instead, that had been stolen from her, ripped away from her grasp by a man who said that he committed such atrocities in war for the love of a girl who had died anyway.

“You look beautiful,” Lady Catelyn said, adjusting the maiden cloak so it fell neatly behind her. “I will take my leave, to make sure everyone is in place.”

Rhaenys forced out a smile that she hoped looked grateful but that probably made her seem cruel. “Thank you.”

Lady Catelyn left, shutting the door softly behind her, leaving Rhaenys alone with Arianne who was sat at the vanity, adjusting her own dress and furs.

“You really do look stunning Rhae. Robb Stark won’t know what to do with himself,” she said and rose to face her. “Are you sure that you don’t want to change your maiden cloak?”

“No,” Rhaenys said defiantly. “It’s my name.”

At the last minute, Rhaenys had stripped the Targaryen cloak from her back and replaced it with the Martell’s sun and spear. It was not nearly as opulent as the onyx and crimson Targaryen cloak, but it was still beautiful.

At first she had planned to let Robert Baratheon have the satisfaction of ordering that the Targaryen colours be stripped from her, but she realized that she didn’t want to be a Targaryen. It had only brought her misery.

A part of her felt guilty, her family had worked so hard to help make it, but she couldn’t bare to wear it in the sept, not when it hurt to look at it, not when it filled her with weariness to even think of. A wedding was supposed to be happy, and she couldn't be content while wearing something that made her ache.

Her own grandfather had called her too Dornish and cared only for his pureblooded family, sending them to safety on Dragonstone, leaving Elia Martell and her two babes as hostages. Her Targaryen father had abandoned his wife and children for someone who wasn’t much older than a child herself, snatching her from her betrothed, crowning her queen of Love and Beauty, forsaking his lawful wife in the eyes of the seven.

It was just as well the smallfolk had even called her a false dragon when she was still a babe recovering from the massacre, claiming that she was had been taken from a brothel in Kings Landing to keep the Targaryen claim. They couldn’t have a child that looked like Aegon, as he was far too distinctive. It had to be the common looking dragon instead of the regal pureblooded boy.

She would embrace the title and become the False Dragon. She would be a true Martell for the last hour of her unwed life. Then, she would be a Stark.

Rhaenys descended the stairs, keeping her head held high and her back straight. At the bottom, stood Oberyn who seemed to struggle to look at her without blinking away the tears.

When she reached him, he held out his arm for her to grasp as the pair of them began to the long procession to the Winterfell Sept.

“Elia would be so proud of you sweetling,” he said, clasping her arm with his strong hand. On his little finger was a small ring that Rhaenys thought she recognized from somewhere else. “You look so much like her, I truly thought that you were your mother for a moment.”

She shook her head, clinging tightly to his hand to stop herself from shaking. “I’m not my mother. I will not be her; I will be someone that she would be proud of. Someone worthy of the name Martell.”

“That’s all that she would have asked for,” Oberyn replied, holding her hand tightly as the stepped out the keep and into the cold wind of the North.

The ceremony was a blur to her. The songs were long, the prayers longer and despite following the Seven, it all seemed to drag on. She could remember the walk to the Sept and people lining the pathway, some such as Daemon Sand and the other Dornishmen, were smiling to reassure her, Theon Greyjoy had a sly little grin, like he was privy to a joke that no one else had heard.

Others like Jon Snow, Robb’s bastard brother appeared neutral, his face was serious, but his eyes were bright, brighter than she had seen them before.

Stannis and Renly Baratheon and the remaining relations of the King were as stony faced as the statues of the seven themselves. Rhaenys didn't want to look at them, but she couldn't help it. The black and yellow of the Baratheons and red and gold of the Lannister made her think solely of blood and death staining the snow.

Lady Catelyn's sept was smaller than any she had been in. The light shone through the huge windows, but it ultimately didn't make it seem larger. It would be cosy if there were not so many people squeezed into it. 

She could remember seeing Robb standing before the carved statues of the mother and father, clean-shaven and serious. The cut on his lip had healed, leaving behind naught but a faint mark. When he saw her enter, he gave a brief smile that Rhaenys couldn’t quite bring herself to return. When Oberyn handed her off to him, she thought that Robb had squeezed her hand, but it could have been her imagination.

She looked out to the crowd that was huddled in the Sept, seeing some familiar faces; Nymeria Sand, Arianne, her youngest cousins, Obella, Elia, Dorea and Loreza and the other Starks.

Arya, Robb’s youngest sister was fiddling with the clasp on her cloak and kept looking behind her to someone who must have been outside of the Sept. Her hair was perfectly plaited, but Rhaenys couldn’t help but think that it wouldn’t last. Arya was a very… excitable girl. She caught Rhaenys' eye and gave her a toothy grin before her sister gave her a elbow to the side.

Sansa was a miniature of her mother. She stood tall and proud, with her hands clasped neatly at her front and her eyes forward, looking at the pair of them before the mother and father. She ignored Arya completely, who was sticking her tongue out.

In the days leading up to the wedding, Rhaenys found herself warming to the Stark girls far more than she’d anticipated. Arya reminded her of herself, constantly begging for a sword to practice in the tiltyard with her brothers. Once the stress of the wedding was over, Rhaenys planned on showing the girl her own sword and perhaps, if they were permitted, a few sword fighting techniques that Oberyn had taught her.

However, Rhaenys also felt a kinship to Sansa who was fast becoming the perfect lady. Her questions about Dorne and the silks that they had worn in the constant heat were endearing, if not a little bit repetitive.

From behind the girls, Lady Catelyn dabbed away some tears from the corner of her eyes. Her husband was on her other side, clutching her arm with a stern set to his jaw and eyes like iron that bore into Rhaenys’ being. When Ned Stark looked at her, his features softened and she could see the man behind the lord. 

She pulled her eyes away and aimed her focus at her husband to be, who was holding her hand tight as if he was worried that she would bolt like a frightened horse at the first opportunity. She wouldn't. She was no craven and the real reason she was trembling was not from fear, but cold. 

Rhaenys turned to Oberyn who removed her maiden cloak from her shoulders and draped it over his arm.

The Winterfell Septon -Chayle was his name- told Robb to cloak her and take her under his protection. As he clasped it around her neck, she felt his hand brush her hair away from her neck and it gave her goose bumps.

Though she couldn’t see the cloak, she knew that it was beautiful and matched the dress that she wore. Lady Catelyn had said that it was the same dress Stark women had worn for generations. The clasp was two direwolves meeting in the middle and Rhaenys suddenly felt as if it was right, as it was the sigil that she was supposed to have.

She also knew that they would have to kiss and even the thought of it made her want to turn redder than Sansa Stark’s hair. He wouldn’t be the only she had kissed. Cletus Yronwood, Daemon Sand and a boy from the Southern Isles whose name she couldn’t remember had all received a peck or two from her when she and Arianne had indulged in a tad too much wine, but this would be time it would be before other people, with the man she was to spend the rest of her life with.

Not since the day in the tiltyard had they been so close and part of her wished that he had kissed her then so that there wasn’t so much anticipation. The girlish part of her wanted it to be perfect, but that wasn’t possible.

“With this kiss,” Robb began and as she joined in with the last words. “I pledge my love.”

He leaned in, and she reciprocated, and they met in the middle. It was a nice kiss. His lips were soft and Rhaenys found a part of her wanting more, but as quick as it happened, it was over and he had pulled away, leaving the two of them standing before Septon Chayle a wedded couple.

“You are now pronounced man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Because they were wed in the eyes of the seven, they needed to be wed before the old gods. Robb led her out of the sept and to the heart tree in the godswood, where they both knelt before the tree. He took her hand, joining them before the tree. Robb murmured something that was drowned out by the wind and bowed his head in submission. She did the same, wondering what he had said.

Was she supposed to pray? What for? Perhaps she was supposed to ask the old gods for a happy and loving marriage, or a respectful one. She kept her head lowered, watching Robb from the corner of her eye. He seemed to be deep in thought, eyes closed tightly and mouth barely moving. They remained there in silence for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes

Then he rose and Rhaenys hastily joined him, catching her foot in the heavy skirts. She pitched forwards and had already begun flushing a bright red and picturing how she’d recover from the embarrassment, but Robb caught her arm and managed to pull her back so she span into his arms and remained thankfully on her feet. Her chest was pressed to his, and they were so close to each other that she could have counted the light spray of freckles across his nose

She bobbed her head, trying to hide the growing redness in her cheeks. “Thank you,” breathed Rhaenys, trying to salvage what remained of her dignity. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re my wife, it’s now my duty to prevent any unfortunate trips and falls. What kind of husband would I be if I failed at the first hurdle,” he replied in a mock whisper and released her, taking a small step back so she could right herself.

She huffed and raised her head, meeting his gaze with a hard stare. “Still, that was kind. I appreciate it.”

Robb inclined his head and offered his arm for her to take as they left the godswood. She took it and the two of them led the way to Winterfell’s great hall.

 

***

 

It should have been a monumental occasion, his marriage, but Robb couldn’t quite bring himself to enjoy it as much as he would have, not while his bride was sat silently at his side, fiddling with the embroidered hem of her sleeve.

He had tried to direct questions at her, but they were all answered by one word or two if he was lucky. Her eyes were glassy, and she seemed to refuse to even look in his direction, either looking down, or straight ahead at the bustle of people seated below them in the great hall. She wasn’t drunk, barely touching the wine that sat before her.

Rhaenys was still beautiful though. Her hair had begun to fall from its elaborate braids and slim strands dropped into her face. Her dress, that had been so pristine earlier, was wrinkled from where she kept wringing her hands.

When she had entered the Sept, Robb had thought she looked like she had been carved from stone, unforgiving and cold as marble. Now, rumpled and quiet she seemed far more attainable, less like a statue and more like a woman.

“Rhaenys,” he started, but then regretted it. She had told him to call her by her given name, but that was when they had a blossoming friendship, not when they were man and wife. Still, he persisted. “Would like for me to get some Dornish Red for you?”

She shook her head mutely, tensing with every word that he spoke.

He didn’t know what to do, so he poured himself another glass. Theon had told him that he shouldn’t get too drunk lest he not satisfy his new wife, but this was Robb’s second glass, so he doubted it would do much harm.

He glanced across the hall, meeting the eyes of Jon Snow and gave a helpless shrug. Jon understood what he meant.

After Tommy had shaved the pair of them that morning at the request of Robb’s mother, they had a quick and quiet discussion about the impending marriage. 

“I thought that we were friends, but I might have ruined it.” Robb had told him, running a hand through his hair.

“How?”

“I nearly kissed her and she will barely look at me now.”

“I’m sure she’s just nervous,” replied Jon, scratching his jaw with his index finger. “She has left everything that she knew to come here and marry someone that she barely knows to rule over people that she has never encountered, it’s certainly not easy for her. Don’t forget, there are probably plenty of people who still resent her for her father’s actions. King Robert does.”

Jon’s words had tempered him at the time, but faced with his wife looking more than upset, Robb could only think that it must have been something that he’d done. Perhaps she was upset about living somewhere that didn’t exclusively worship the seven? Maybe she still held a grudge about the sparring match that he had allowed himself to be drawn into.

Or maybe the reality of the entire thing had set in and Rhaenys had decided that he was a poor excuse of a groom.

Robb pressed his thumb to his temple, trying to calm himself and stop from dreaming up reasons why she hated him when the musicians struck up a lively tune that had people calling for the newlyweds to dance.

He turned to look at Rhaenys, and offered her his hand. Robb was very prepared for her to reject him, but much to his surprise, she rose, delicately placing her hand in his.

His ribs were still bruised from the blow gifted to him by Prince Oberyn just days before. Standing made them ache even more and he knew that he was walking more gingerly than normal. He thought it was prominent, obvious, but Rhaenys didn’t seem to notice. It was like she was looking, but not seeing.  

He led her to the floor and turned her to face him. Still, she didn’t focus on him, choosing to gaze over his shoulder at one of the tapestries that decorated the hall. The tune began again, and Rhaenys put her hand on his shoulder and the interlaced the fingers of her other one with his.

They began to dance properly, with Robb taking great pains not to step on her feet. He had only danced with Sansa under the watchful eye of Septa Mordane and his mother, who had corrected him at every step. Sansa would always tell him exactly what he did wrong, never mincing her words.

Around them, others followed suit. Her uncle Oberyn danced with his… paramour, Ellaria, Bran and Arya clung to each other, spinning in circles that had everyone around them giving them a wide berth. Arianne Martell and the squire for Oberyn danced far closer than most couples of their standings and Dacey Mormont, the heir to Bear Island, twirled in the arms of Smalljon Umber.

It was a strange experience; watching people who he had never imagined, dance together. Besides, with Rhaenys avoiding his eyes at every turn, he had plenty of time to glance at the other partners.

When the song ended, she excused herself and Robb danced with Arya, Sansa twice, Beth Cassel, Alys Karstark and Jeyne Poole once a piece, all while keeping an eye on Rhaenys, who partnered with Oberyn for one single dance before retreating to the high table to speak with her bastard cousin Nymeria for most of the remaining dances.

He was about to join her when Arianne Martell bounced into his view, swathed in yellow silks, looking much more comfortable than he felt.

“Dance with me, Lord Robb, your wife can wait for now.”

With very little choice, Robb took her hand and led her to the floor. She was very beautiful, but she was also quite frightening. She reminded him of a blizzard, a spectacle to witness, but if you are caught in its path, potentially deadly.

“Rhaenys looked a vision today, did she not?” Arianne asked, as they passed by Arya and Jon, who were muddling their way through a dance next to them.

“Yes, she did,” he replied.

Arianne flourished her skirts more than necessary and drew closer to him. “She and I are very close, she tells me everything.”

Robb swallowed and nodded as she began to squeeze his shoulder tightly.

“If she ever writes to tell me of you mistreating her, I will not hesitate to have the might of Dorne crush you and the whole of the North,” her voice became steel and when Robb looked in her face, it was thunderous.

“Lady Arianne, I have already given my word to Rhaenys that I will never hurt or be unkind to her, but if she does write, speaking to you of such things, trust me when I say that you will probably by third in line to destroy me, after Rhaenys and the gods themselves,” he said, matching her tone. “My father has raised me to be honorable and if I were to do such things, the gods themselves would strike me down where I stood. I made a vow when we wed, that I would protect her. Believe me when I say that I will not break it.”

Arianne inclined her head, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “Understood, Lord Robb.”

She released him just as the calls for the bedding began to echo around the hall. A brief look at Rhaenys showed an expression akin to a cornered wolf. She looked quite prepared to kick, punch and generally injure anybody who went to close to her. She was pulled out before him, but when she glanced behind her, he met her eyes.

A group of women led by Dacey Mormont and Nymeria Sand stormed towards him and the only comparison that Robb could make was that he was facing down an army and this army had one joint goal; to strip him of his clothes by the time they reached the bedchambers.

He wasn’t quite sure if he should have been terrified or not when practically every available unclothed part of him was grasped. His side ached as they probed and pushed at him, undressing him and tearing at his tunic.

"You ought to cooperate Lord Stark," Alysanne Mormont said. "This way we won't rip your doublet."

"I don't imagine my cooperation will help make this go any quicker," he replied trying to pinpoint her face.

"Not at all," Nymeria Sand was cheerful behind him and she grasped a handful of his shirt, making a loud tearing sound that caused his hair to stand on end.

When he was pushed into the bedchamber, Rhaenys was sat on the bed, with the furs wrapped around her shoulders, covering all of her body from below the neck. Her hair was no longer pulled back, but instead hanging loose and covering her face. She didn’t look at him until after the door shut and the sounds of cheers were muffled.

“Are you alright? They didn’t hurt you, did they?” asked Robb, standing awkwardly before her. 

“No. They were enthusiastic, but it was what I expected,” she replied, straightening the sheets. “I think that they tore the dress though.”

He brushed away her concerns. “It’s a dress, it can be mended.”

Rhaenys didn’t answer, only adjusting the furs so they covered her a little more. Now they were alone, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say. Did he sit next to her, or was that too forward? Was he supposed to complement her, or keep quiet? He decided that he would sit in the chair by the fireplace.

“Would you like me to light the fire? You look cold.”

“No it’s alright,” Rhaenys replied. It was like she was having a conversation with herself. Her brow was furrowed and she kept biting her lip before she finally opened her mouth. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

"Never?" He hadn't been to many either, especially not those before the seven. The Northerners in the household often married before the heart tree in the godswood.

She shook her head, flushing. "No," she said quietly and he could barely hear her over the sound of the feast below.

“We’re supposed to… consummate,” Robb said, this time trying to avoid her eyes.

She laughed, a sharp bark that was so unlike her that it made him jump. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We met a moon ago and now we’re expected to be wedded and bedded. I’m going to become the Lady of Winterfell.”

“I suppose it is,” he said. “Before, the other Northern Lords would scheme to have me marry their daughters. The Manderlys wanted one of theirs as the Lady and so did the Karstarks. Now, it’s a dragon.”

“False Dragon,” Rhaenys rebutted. “Haven’t you heard the rumors? The Martell’s snatched me from a brothel in Kings Landing and had me parade as a Targaryen.”

Robb snickered. “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” she replied and dropped her voice into a conspiring whisper. “Haven’t you heard that the Starks turn into wolves?”

The pair of them dissolved into giggles and it was easy to forget that they were now married and not friends in the godswood like they had been just days before.

When he composed himself, Robb sat beside her on the bed, and looked at her. “Are you really that upset at having to marry me? You couldn’t even muster a smile in the Sept.”

“I’m not,” she sighed. “It’s very difficult to explain,” Rhaenys said, pushing her loose hair behind her ear.

“I swear on my life that I will do my best to be a good husband to you,” he vowed. “I won’t ever hurt you, or allow anybody to harm you. I prayed to the gods that they would let our marriage be one of happiness.”

“The only examples of marriages that I’ve seen have been awful,” she began, finally looking up and meeting his gaze. “My grandfather Aerys would rape my grandmother nightly. Her screams would echo around the Red Keep. It was like having a ghost, or nightmares except that it was a living breathing woman suffering so and nobody would help her. She would emerge from her chambers covered in scratches and bites and bruises. Her skin was a canvas of pain inflicted by someone who was supposed to protect her from such things.”

“My father abandoned my mother and my brother and me for a girl younger than I am now. He fought a war over her while we rotted in Maegor’s Holdfast. He crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty as my mother watched, humiliated to her very core. Then, he left us and now because of his arrogance and foolishness, my brother and my mother are long dead.”

“Even my aunt and uncle’s love wasn’t strong enough. She left him for Norvos while I was still a child.”

Robb didn’t know what to say, so instead he reached for the free hand that was lying beside her on her bed. “When I brought you before the heart tree, I asked for them to protect you as my wife and as a Northerner. I prayed for a marriage that would be respectful, if not loving.”

She smiled, something so small that if he hadn’t been looking at her he would have missed the corner of her lips lifting up. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends, does it?”

“Of course not, in fact I think that all married couples should be friends. How are you to be partners if you can’t stand to look at each other?”

Rhaenys shrugged and very suddenly rested her head on his shoulder. Robb froze, his breathing slowed and his hand in hers became very still.

“If you barely stand this, it’s going to be very difficult to lay together,” Rhaenys said and he could hear her stifling a laugh.

There was no point in defending himself, so he relaxed and let her stay like that until she became restless.

“Your side is still bruised. I told you that Oberyn would give you an injury,” she muttered, almost lazily. “I used to use witch hazel. I’m not sure it made much of a difference though.”

Without moving, Robb answered. “My brother and I tough it out. My father told us never to start a fight if we couldn’t bear the consequences.”

“Your father is a wise man.” It was silent for a few moments until she moved her head from his shoulder to look at him.

She probed his chest. "Where did you get this?" Her hand was atop of a sliver of a scar that nicked his right side. It was faded now, but still noticeable and Robb chuckled. 

"It was a bloody stupid thing to do. Jon, Theon and I snuck out after dark to practice with arrows. Contrary to popular belief, Theon was not always good at archery as he tells everyone, he in fact was not born with a quiver and a bow."

"Really, I would never have guessed," she answered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"He made a bet that I wouldn't stand before the target and I was stupid and thought that it would be brave, so I did."

She inhaled sharply. "He shot you with an arrow? Seven hells!"

"Not quite. He said that he wouldn't hit me, but I panicked and went to get out of the way when he released. If I had stayed where I was, he never would have hit me." 

Her laugh was high and clear like a tinkling bell. "You're right, that was a bloody stupid thing to do."

"You should have seen us. It barely grazed me, but I made such a fuss, screaming loud enough to wake the entire keep. Everyone was furious, but until I healed didn't enact any punishment."

"What did they do when you healed?"

"I had to muck out the stables for a moon, which was nightmare," he said. "Mind you I was just about eight, so it was a monumental task."

She moved her head back to his shoulder and grasped his hand with hers. "The scar has faded well. If I hadn't been looking I never would have seen it."

"Scars fade, but if you know that they are there..." he trailed off, not quite sure what he wanted to accomplish with that thought. 

They remained still, in a companionable silence until she rolled her own neck, leaning backwards until she nearly collapsed back onto the bed.

"Are you alright?" he asked hauling her up straight. 

"Yes, I'm fine," Rhaenys replied. "Don't worry."

Robb went to stand and stretch when suddenly her lips were on his own. She pulled back immediately, flushing and looking down into her lap, but he leaned forwards and continued it.

When they had kissed in the Sept, she had been a little reluctant, but now she was considerably less so. She let go of the furs that she had been holding around her body, and they fell to the floor, revealing her shift-clad body. Rhaenys was undeniably beautiful when she was standing in the Sept, but at the time, she seemed colder than ice. Now, she was warm like he imagined Dornish summers were and that made her even more wonderful.

At first he held her waist tentatively, but then moved his hand to her thigh, and when she didn’t stop him, he pressed higher to her hips and then her breasts.

He stopped and she sensed his reluctance. They stopped and looked at each other. “We don’t have to just because it’s expected,” Robb began, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I want to,” Rhaenys replied and put her small palm onto his chest, over his heart that was beating erratically. He covered her hand with his own and watched her own uneven breathing. She initiated the next kiss, while she was still feeling his heartbeat.

It was a soft kiss, and Robb let go of her hand to run his hands up and down her body. Her shift bunched in his fist and he couldn’t help but want her to remove it so he could see her, all of her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and fisted her hands in his hair, deepening the kiss, pressing her body against his. Very slowly, they sunk onto the bed and Rhaenys lifted a leg over him so she was straddling him with her hair falling around her face in midnight curtain.

She stopped the kiss and sat up straight. Robb couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were bright and staring down at him with same intensity as he felt at the moment. She was breathing heavily and he couldn’t help but sit up too and run his hand down her face, over her long and elegant neck and over her breasts.

“Is this okay?” he asked, mindful of the answer.

She nodded and he began to kiss her neck, pushing her hair to the other side so he could have unlimited access. One hand held her in place while the other ventured down between her thighs and she moaned in his ear at the first touch. She reached down too and showed him where to touch to elicit the loudest whimpers.  

Rhaenys writhed in his grip, rocking her hips in rhythm with his fingers.  As the pair of them got faster she threw her free hand around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging it so it almost hurt, but he didn’t mind. The more she moaned and panted, the more his hands and mouth worked. His face was still buried in the crook of her neck and he kissed his way down to her collarbone.

She came with a shudder, and forwards wrapping her arms around him, clutching him close to her, breathing so hard that he could feel her heart racing.

Rhaenys pulled his face from her throat and kissed him with a passion. She let go of him and grasped the bottom of the shift and peeled it from her body in one fluid motion.

Following her example, he shed his small clothes and they were both very aware of their nakedness. Rhaenys sat back on the bed and parted her thighs. He positioned himself between her legs and pushed in.

She started, but when he stopped to let her adjust, she stroked his face and kissed him to let him know that he could continue.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, looking deep in her eyes.

“No,” Rhaenys replied in a similar tone and reached her hand up to cup the back of his neck. “Keep going, I promise I’m fine.” As if to show him just how fine she was, she wrapped her legs around his hips tightly crossing them at the ankle, pushing him even further into her.

They went slow and Robb tried to keep his pace even, despite how wonderful she felt around him. With every thrust, he went quicker and harder until they were both grunting at the exertion. Finally he came hard inside her, slumping against her when he finished.

After a few moments of recovery, he rolled off her and lay there not speaking as he slowed his breathing.

Rhaenys broke the silence, turning on her side and leaning on her elbow. “That was good,” she said looking at him with a frown. “You’re sure that you’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“Quite sure, but I’ve done other things,” he replied and it was true. He’d kissed Jeyne Poole once behind the stables, but she had run off within moments and probably told Sansa, who had given him dirty looks for a moon turn. There had been a few other instances with the serving girls, but nothing like _that_. Rhaenys was the only woman he’d bedded. “What about you, it seemed like you knew what you were doing.”

“I may have been a maid,” she said, reaching for his hand and lacing her fingers between his, “but I was far from inexperienced.”

Robb smiled and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand before lying back in the bed. “Goodnight, Lady Rhaenys Stark.”

“Goodnight Lord Robb Stark,” she replied and lay back too, pulling the furs up to cover her chest. Very soon the room was quiet as the new Lord and Lady of the castle went to sleep, while the celebration raged in the great hall below them.


	7. CHOICES AND DREAMS

Strange dreams were all too common for Rhaenys when she was young. As a child, she had once run weeping into Arianne’s bedchambers in Sunspear about a nightmare that had woken her. She had been sobbing so hard that she could barely speak. Her cousin was terrified that an assassin had come in the night and tried to kill her, she had roused the entire keep. Doran, Oberyn and twenty Martell guards had come running in, weapons at the ready, only for Rhaenys to hiccup and tell them that it was actually just all in her mind.

As a little girl she had vivid dreams. Sometimes they were good, playing in the keep with her little brother, or splashing in the ocean, or even once she was riding a dragon. Others were most definitely not. They were ones that had her waking up in with cries still dying on her lips.

“Tis a sign of a strong imagination,” her mother had said, soothing her one night, the front of her gown still wet from where Rhaenys had dried her tears. She kissed her cheek lightly and pulled her into her lap. “Only very special people dream like you my darling.”

“Like Daenys the Dreamer,” Rhaenys had whispered, “only she dreamt about bad things. I dream about good things too.”

“Yes,” Elia had replied, staring into the distance. “Like Daenys the Dreamer.”

After Rhaenys had been prepared for the day by the maidservants that hovered around the Red Keep, she and Elia would sit in the gardens and talk all about their dreams. Her mother would speak about boring things, talking about the time she ate an apple in her dream or went swimming, but Rhaenys would weave a story about how she had battled thousands of knights, or won a tourney and crowned herself Queen of Love and Beauty.

It had been a way to spend time with her alone, without worrying about her mother’s ladies in waiting sticking their noses in, which they were always doing. The only one that she really liked was Ashara Dayne, but she went back to Starfall not long after the Tourney at Harrenhall.

When she was three and ten, the dreams had stopped being as frequent and she grieved at that. It was a weak connection, but it was something that she and her mother had shared, something that had joined the two of them in the mornings but now the tenuous link had gone.

At least until her wedding night.

Rhaenys had woken with an ache between her thighs and water in her eyes. She lay on her side, back to her new husband. If his even breathing was anything to go by, he was fast asleep.

It was still dark, but she could hear the celebration raging below them. There was music and drinking and she was sure that she had heard the crash of a glass smashing. She must not have slept for long. It was her dream that gave her pause and even thinking of it made her eyes well up and a few stray tears slipped down her face.

While the wedding guests cheered about the marriage of the heir in the North, Rhaenys had dreamt of her mother.

_Elia Martell was by the windowsill, hand pressed against the glass, watching as the snow fell onto the ground. They were fat, fluffy flakes that landed softly, and they were hypnotizing to watch._

_“Mother?” Rhaenys asked as she entered the room._

_Without turning, Elia spoke, “you never used to call me mother,” she replied quietly._

_Her heart lodged in her throat. “Mama?” She crossed over to the window, with a pit in her stomach._

_Elia Martell looked the same as she could remember, long midnight hair that fell to her mid back, warm brown eyes that made her feel so loved with even just a look. “Hello sweetling.”_

_Rhaenys felt like a little girl again. Her mother rose and enfolded her in an embrace. She choked back tears and buried her face into the crook of her mother’s neck. “I missed you so much.”_

_Her mother kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. “I missed you too, my darling girl. You’ve grown so much, I nearly didn’t recognize you.”_

_“My uncles always said that I looked like you. Oberyn tells me that it’s like looking in a mirror.”_

_Elia pushed a strand of loose hair behind Rhaenys’ ear, brushing her thumb over her cheek so lightly that it was like a feather. “You may look like me, but you are your own person.”_

_Pulling away, Rhaenys looked at her mother. They were nearly the same height now, Elia standing a little bit taller, but she was frailer, with bones that looked like they could snap with too much unnecessary force._

_Now that she was staring properly, without the filter of childhood, Elia’s face was gaunt, cheekbones protruding and dark circles beneath her eyes. She appeared tired, like she had not slept in fifteen years and wore the light silks that were so popular in Dorne, a pale orange that were most more suited to the warm southern climate than Winterfell._

_Despite all of the little differences, her mother still seemed unshakeable. The same woman who had borne the humiliation of her husband crowning a girl, running off with her and eventually dying in the Trident._

_“I’m married now mama,” Rhaenys said, looking out the same window to the snow. Instead of the light flakes, it had become harsh, swirling around in the howling wind. “To Robb Stark.”_

_“I know,” she replied. “Your dress is beautiful.”_

_Rhaenys looked down to see that she was in her wedding gown, but instead of the Martell maiden cloak that she had begun with in the morning, she wore the embroidered direwolf upon her back._

_“Lady Catelyn gave it to me, she said that she had been gifted it when she married Lord Stark,” she pulled at the heavy skirts. “Tradition I suppose.”_

_Elia let out a harsh laugh. "What were the Targaryen's if not traditional."_

_"We were traditional?" Rhaenys' brow furrowed._

_"It was a jest, sweetling. I was making a joke."_

_"Oh," she said quietly. She did not understand what was so funny, but shrugged and sat down opposite her, pulling at the threads on the cloak._

_"Tell me about your Stark boy," Elia asked, reaching over to cover her hand with her own. "What is he like?"_

_"There isn't much to tell," Rhaenys replied. "He's tall, taller than I, with the Tully red hair and eyes. He's friendly. We go for walks in the godswood and they are enjoyable enough. We get along well enough."_

_“Is he kind?” her mother asked._

_Rhaenys nodded. “He is.”_

_“Do you love him?” It was a loaded question, but Rhaenys decided to be truthful._

_“No.”_

_“Do you think that you will grow to love him?”_

_She paused, not sure how to answer. She desperately wanted to grow to love him, but it was a fickle thing. “Maybe.”_

_“Your father and I were never in love, but we respected each other. In the beginning of the marriage, we could talk for hours, but as Aerys grew more and more unstable and after you were born, it began to descend.”_

_"You never loved him?” It had always been a suspicion, even before she had truly known what love was. Her parents were not affectionate, when she watched Doran and Mellario, they touched each other almost like it was second nature, unconsciously making contact._

_“I viewed him as one might see a close friend. But he was far too melancholy to be loved. I wanted to love him, but I knew very quickly that he never would feel the same about me. We did our duty-“_

_“He ran off with a girl younger than I am now! He didn’t protect us, instead he decided to flee to Dorne, to abandon his wife who he swore to love and care for and he left us and now Aegon is dead and you are dead! It’s his fault!” Fat tears began to slide down her cheeks. They both should have been there, they should have been happy but instead she was alone._

_Elia pulled her in for a hug, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. “It’s alright darling, everything will be alright.” Pecking her lightly on the cheek, her mother pulled back, looking for signs of mistreatment. She ran her hands up and down her arms, searching for bruises and scars that could mar her skin._

_“Do you forgive him? Father I mean?” she asked, wiping away the tears. “For everything that happened, for what he began?”_

_“No,” her mother said with steel in her voice that Rhaenys had not heard in a long time. “I don’t. Perhaps I could have if we had all lived, but after what happened, I don’t think I ever could.”_

_"Why did he do it?”_

_Elia cradled her like she was a child again. “He was a single-minded person. I cannot say that I understood or really knew your father, but there was a reason behind it.”_

_“So, we were not a good enough reason for him to stay?”_

_“Oh, my sweet girl,” she let Rhaenys sob into her shoulder. It was neglect, what she was feeling. It was not that her life in Dorne had not been wonderful, it had, but that her father had run off, leaving behind his wife and children for no reason. He had abandoned them, and her mother and brother had paid the ultimate price._

_Rhaenys’ face crumpled. “I wish that you were there.” She meant everything, her wedding, her childhood in Sunspear, her namedays. All she wanted was for her mother to have been there to witness her growing up, becoming a woman, for Elia to help her dress for the Sept, to witness her stand before the Mother and Father and hear the vows that she had said herself twenty years before._

_Cupping her cheek, Elia smiled. It was wan, plastered on her face for Rhaenys’ sake, but it was still there. “I’m always there,” she said quietly. As Rhaenys watched, her skin became see through, like the way her gowns would when she played in the Water Gardens as a child. Elia Martell was fading fast, becoming translucent. The warm glow that she had brought with her disappeared, leaving behind a cold and dark room._

_She was ghost, vanishing into the shadows, leaving her only daughter listening to the wind that screamed outside of the room._

Thinking about her mother made her want to beg for her to return, to go back to the dream where everything was alright again. She squeezed her eyes together, holding in the sobs and bite her lip to stop from crying out.

The wound was no longer old, but fresh and aching terribly. Unlike a physical scar, there was no way to heal it other than time. 

She thought back to the dream, where her mother was alive, whole. Nobody ever told her what had happened, only that she had died. She knew it was the Mountain who had killed her, killed Aegon by smashing his infant skull in. Oberyn threatened castration on any man who told her how it happened, and that's how she knew that it had been painful, torturous. She had only heard rumors, that Gregor Clegane had raped her and then broken her neck, or that he had stabbed her so many times that nobody knew what really killed. Some said that he crushed her head like he did her brother, others said argued he had split her in half and she had bled out. The only thing that anyone agreed on was that she was dead. 

Curling up on herself, Rhaenys tried to force herself back into sleep, into her imagination and everything would be safe again, but she could not. So instead she lay quietly, trying not to move, hoping for a dream that one never come.

 

***

 

He knew she was awake. The way she lay, the way she breathed, the way she was almost perfectly still like a polished statue, it was what gave it away.

It was not quiet yet, some stragglers were determined to keep celebrating, but they could be ignored. Besides, they would probably stumble down to Wintertown to get a warm body to sleep next to that night.

He readjusted the heavy furs, trying not to disturb Rhaenys, who didn’t stir as the bedding moved. If she wanted him to know that she was awake, she would tell him.

The chambers were boiling, the fire had not yet burned out and it was creating more heat than Robb was used to. When he was alone, his chambers were always cool but with Rhaenys in there with him, he didn’t want her to freeze.

He rose from the bed, pulling on his breeches that had been thrown to the floor sometime before when they had coupled.

When he opened the window, the smack of cold air made him suck in a breath. _I’m certainly not warm anymore,_ Robb thought, leaving it ajar. If it got too cold, he’d deal with it later.

He didn’t know how the Southerners could stand it. Above the neck if it got too cold, they would just put on more layers if it was too cold. But at the other extreme, there was only so much that someone could remove.

There were two goblets and a half full pitcher of wine on the side table and he was still thirsty, so he poured himself a glass.

By the light of the dying fire, he could see the outline of her body beneath the sheets.

As he drank, she rolled over and looked at him. The light from the fire reflected in her dark eyes. “Are you too hot?” Her voice was rough, almost as if she had been crying.

“Aye,” Robb replied. He gestured to the other goblet. “Would you like some?”

Rhaenys pulled her shift from the floor and put it in. Before she had been unashamedly bare, but when she covered up now, she appeared to be self-conscious. She rose and walked over to him gingerly. “Yes please.”

He handed her the goblet and filled it. “Have you slept?”

“A little bit,” she replied, pushing her hair out of her face. “Not well though.”

As she sipped, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Rhaenys kept her eyes on the floor, curling in on herself. She appeared to be willing herself to disappear.

“My cousin and I once got terribly tipsy on Dornish Red a few years ago,” she began, glancing up. “Ever since then I’ve barely been able to stomach the stuff, but it feels comforting now.”

“I never used to be fan, but I’ve found it less… intoxicating than mead. My half-brother and I did a similar thing to you. We snuck out a year ago on his nameday and got totally and utterly drunk on some very, very strong mead. I could barely stand up straight. Two of the men-at-arms had to drag Jon and I back through the gates.”

“What did your father do?”

Robb laughed. “Nothing. He told me that I had decided to go out on my own and the headache that I had was punishment enough,” he paused, thinking back to the day. “Though I have a sneaking suspicion that he made me take on more duties than normal. I was miserable for the entire morning.”

“Arianne and I hid it quite well. I feigned a stomach ache, and everyone left me alone to wallow in peace,” she said, pausing to bring the cup to her lips. “I think that my uncle Oberyn figured it out, but he never told anyone.”

Rhaenys smiled wistfully and then she shivered, rubbing her arms, glancing around. “Seven hells, it’s cold.”

“Oh, that’s my fault,” he said and closed the window. She still looked frozen, so he grabbed the furs from the bed and draped them around her shoulders. “I forgot that you weren’t as accustomed to it as I am.”

“I think that King’s Landing was colder than Dorne, but I can’t really remember. I wore more layers, because it took Tilla at least half an hour to dress me in the mornings.”

“Tilla?” he asked. Robb didn’t recognize the name from any of the Dornish emissaries.

"She was my old nursery maid. When my mother was on bedrest, Tilla used to make sure I was presentable,” her voice became almost inaudible. “I wonder what happened to her. I never saw her again after that night, but I like to think that she escaped and went back home to her family.”

“I wasn’t aware that you,” he paused as if choosing his next words carefully, “could remember much from your time in King’s Landing.”

 She paused, staring into space. “I can’t remember much, just little things. I don’t like to think about it. I repressed most of that night, I can only remember afterwards.”

_Entirely understandable, I doubt that I would want to remember it either,_ Robb thought to himself, drinking again. _Not after what little father told me._

“My family tell me that I howled for my mother, screaming loud enough that my uncles thought that I had been stabbed too.” Rhaenys was in a trance, speaking like nobody else was in the room. “One of Sunspear’s maesters tried to examine me, but I kicked and bit until he could barely go near me. He declared that if I could make such a fuss, I was surely healthy. The only person who could calm me down was Oberyn. He let me cry, he didn’t try to touch me, but he sat on the bed with me for hours, waiting until the noises turned from screams to sobs to sniffles. I crawled onto his lap and he held me just like my mother would until I fell asleep.”

Robb felt like he was intruding in on a highly personal moment. He didn’t even want to speak, for fear that she would find him insensitive. So, he didn’t, staying silent while he stood next to her, holding his wine.

Rhaenys blinked suddenly and shook her head as if she were clearing her mind. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken about it. That was inappropriate.”

“No, not at all,” he replied, trying to backtrack, to make her feel more comfortable. “I asked about it, like I was expecting an answer about games and how wonderful it was. It was my fault for bringing it up. It certainly wasn’t inappropriate for me to mention and I apologize.”

Much to his surprise, she let out a quiet laugh. “Let us make a deal Robb,” she stopped to drink. When she finished her cup, he nodded for her to continue. “We should stop apologizing for things we had no control over. You were not even born at the beginning of the rebellion, I was barely three. It is not our place to take responsibility for such things.”

“What should we take responsibility for then?”

Rhaenys had a wicked grin on her face and pointedly looked at the pitcher. “How much wine we drink.”


	8. AS THE SUN RISES

Despite her initial misgivings about the entire union, marriage did agree with Rhaenys. For the first moon turn, she and Robb stayed in the same bedchamber while her rooms were being prepared, but he was late to sleep and early to rise, almost always gone in the morning, performing some sort of task for his father.

The most common one was assisting with the taxes. Lord Stark collected them from the other Northerners, and then sent them south to Kings Landing. More often than not, Robb would spend the whole day in there. It involved sums that Rhaenys already knew that she had no head for, so she was quite happy staying away.

When he was in Lord Stark’s solar, Rhaenys knew never to disturb the two of them. Despite Winterfell being her new home, she was still rather uncomfortable calling it such. She would not dare to venture into the crypt where the bodies of all of the Starks lay and even entering the Sept where she had been wed made her feel like an intruder.

The days before the Martells finally returned to Dorne were difficult. She had not properly performed tasks fitting for a lady of her station while her little cousins remained. Instead, she had played with them like she was still a child, chasing them through the godswood and sitting and embroidering when the weather was too terrible to do much else.

They were supposed to depart much earlier than they had, but the summer snows had left the roads slippery and dangerous, so it was hardly safe for the party to leave.  Certainly not while her Dornish family were so unfamiliar with the North and its oft-treacherous landscapes.

Most of the other wedding guests had left mere days after the wedding and Rhaenys had curtsied and smiled so many times that cheeks and back would ache. She could not deny that they would be missed, especially not Stannis Baratheon and his steely gaze. He intimidated her and even Robb admitted at her shoulder that the man gave him pause.

The Martell party stayed for longer than most. Oberyn said that he wanted to experience more of Winterfell and the North as he would not likely visit again soon but Rhaenys knew that they were staying for her. They would not leave her alone until she was comfortable and safe at last.

However, the Starks were very accommodating, allowing for use of the guesthouse for as long as they needed, but when the snows finally melted away, it was time for Rhaenys’ family to return to the warmth of Dorne.

Nymeria, Arianne and Rhaenys had ridden out that morning through the wolfswood on three horses graciously leant to them by the stable master. Arianne had said that she wanted one last proper ride before she was stuck in a wheelhouse and then a boat for moons.

Two of the Stark guards had followed at a distance, close enough to prevent an attack, but far enough that they had some privacy to talk like they used to.

They passed through Wintertown. It was deserted now the wedding was over. Only a few brothels had lanterns burning and a tavern or two. The streets were quieter than she had ever seen them, but as they progressed steadily to the woods, it became even more silent.

At the beginning of the ride, it was gray, much like the Stark colors, but soon the sun shone through the trees and reflected off the golden bracelets around Arianne’s wrists.

“I won’t deny it, the North does have a certain charm,” Arianne said, brushing away a strand of hair from her face and behind her ear. “I won’t particularly miss it, but I don’t hate it. At least not nearly as much as I thought I would.”

“Considering on how much you were complaining before I wed Robb, it’s a miracle you ever think about the North in a positive light at all,” Rhaenys replied, turning to watch Arianne’s expression sour like she had swallowed a lemon.

“I was complaining for you too. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for you to speak of Winterfell in such a manner, so I did it for you.”

Nymeria let out a harsh laugh, nearly falling off her horse. “That’s a lie. You complained because you could.”

“Perhaps I did, but I also felt it was my duty,” said Arianne shrugging and looking at Rhaenys. “My duty as your loving cousin, who worries desperately for the last dragon.”

Despite herself, Rhaenys smiled and reached across the chasm between their two horses to grasp Arianne’s hand tightly. “And you have no idea how much I appreciate that, even if I’m not the last dragon.”

“The last dragon in Westeros then,” Arianne rolled her eyes. “By the seven, must you ruin my lovely statement Rhaenys?”

“Not quite that either. Don’t forget Aemon at the wall.”

“Honestly, do you live to torment me?”

They all giggled like they were children again, but instead of all of them gathered in the water gardens, splashing each other with the water and laughing so hard that their sides ached. Now, they were in the North shrouded in so many furs that it was hard to distinguish one from the other without looking at their faces.

“How are you finding wedded life, little cousin? Do you wish that you never had to leave the bed?” Nymeria asked once they had stopped laughing. She looked pointedly at her, raising a brow.

Rhaenys flushed bright red, which the two of them seemed to take as confirmation about their suspicions.

“Does the Stark boy make you peak? He looks a little green, I didn’t think that he would know how,” Arianne said with a wicked grin. “Or do you have to do it yourself?”

“Oh Arianne, stop being so crude! Look at her face, we already have an answer,” Nymeria laughed, tossing her head back and letting her hair cascade over her shoulder “Your husband isn’t nearly as naïve as we thought he was.”

In truth, Rhaenys did enjoy the nights they spent together, even if they were few and far between. If she wasn’t asleep by the time, he entered the bedchambers, which was most of the time, they coupled.

The first night, it was uncomfortable. She had never really been with anyone in the way she was with Robb, but despite their inexperience, she had still peaked while he worked his fingers and kissed her so much that her knees were weak even thinking about it.

Every night got better and better as they learnt more and more about each other’s bodies. What started as an uncomfortable experience that was expected of them on a wedding night had become downright enjoyable.

Robb was a fast learner, and he could make her peak in minutes if he truly put his mind to it, but she liked it when they went slower, trying to map every part of their respective bodies with their hands, lips and tongues.

Intimacy came easy; a light touch on the hand as they broke their fast, a kiss on the forehead when he thought that she was asleep, an embrace when the sky was dark, but they couldn’t bring themselves to end the day just yet.

What she enjoyed the most about bedding together was the haze afterwards when they were vulnerable and exposed, and they would just talk. It was like being with a different person, he became a man who she could understand, who she could see herself truly loving.

She would nestle into his side with the furs pulled up around her chest and he would wrap his arm around her shoulder, lightly running the back of his hand up and down her collarbone and neck. He seemed to run hotter than she, despite being a wolf and she being a dragon and he never wanted to be wrapped up like Rhaenys did, especially after coupling.

Instead they would lie there as the candles flickered on the walls and speak about their lives.

Sometimes she would ask questions about Winterfell and what it was like for him growing up in such a place. Robb would tell her everything, from exploits he and his bastard brother Jon got into, to nicknames that his sister Arya had been given during her youth. Once he ran out of stories, she would ask about his favorite foods, stories and

He would reciprocate and ask her about Dorne, and the Red Mountains and she would smile and answer.

Most of the time however, it was him who would speak. He’d tell her stories that he’d learnt from old Nan, the eldest person in the Winterfell and quite possibly the entire North. Sometimes he would talk about the old Kings of Winter, or the Long Night.

Every once and a while, she would talk about the Martells and the Targaryens, her own ancestors. When she spoke of Nymeria of Ny Sar, Robb would ask her questions. But he always stayed quiet when she whispered about Aegon the Conqueror and Good Queen Alysanne.

They would wile away the hours talking and sometimes, Robb would make his way down her body and they would couple again, finally falling asleep entwined in one another’s arms.

But Nymeria and Arianne didn’t have to know the details of their relationship. They could guess well enough by the heat that radiated from her cheeks.

The pair of them cackled like old maids and made bawdy jokes at her expense. “Does your wolf take you like ones in the woods?”

“Or do you ride him like your own steed?” Arianne asked, “it’s no wonder the boy is always exhausted.”

Rhaenys stayed quiet while her cousins asked about what happened in their bedchambers. A small smile played across her lips as they turned around to go back to Winterfell.

 

***

 

Rhaenys was quiet that night. She was awake when he entered, which was a rarity. Normally she was fast asleep beneath the furs, but this time her eyes were open and staring out of the window. He supposed it must have been very difficult, seeing her family disappear down the Kingsroad.

When he pushed open the door, her eyes flicked to him but when he closed the door, she looked back at the window. Rhaenys stayed perfectly still and if he didn’t know any better, he would have said she was in fast asleep, but now he knew better. Robb had discovered on their wedding night that she was not someone who stayed still.

She always moved in her sleep. Sometimes it was a twitch, her finger would move but other times she would toss and turn, throwing her arm over his chest so fiercely that it would wake him.

Now she lay there silently. _She was grieving_ , Robb realized. Grieving the loss of the only family she had known for sixteen years. He couldn’t blame her.

The Martells had left an hour after Rhaenys and her cousins had returned from their ride, red faced and disheveled. For once, he wasn’t secluded in his father’s solar, but instead he was helping Bran in the tiltyard, showing him how to hold a sword while Rodrik Cassel watched and offered suggestions from where he stood with Prince Oberyn who Robb spent a lot of effort to avoid. As the three of them rode in, followed by two guards, Robb watched Rhaenys’ face fall, like she realized that soon, she would be alone in Winterfell.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw as they dismounted and led their horses to Hullen, the stable master. Prince Oberyn left Rodrik and went towards them, and Robb looked away, focusing on Bran’s posture.

“See, hold it upright. That’s it, well done. It’s heavy now, but as you grow and get accustomed to the weight it will become lighter.” 

Bran looked up at him with wide eyes. “Do you think Ice has become lighter for father?”

Robb paused. Their father bore the sins of others on Ice and it got heavier every time he wielded it. So many men had bled out when that sword had pierced their skin and father despite knowing his duty, hated it. He had told Robb’s mother as much.

“I think that Ice is easier to lift,” Robb said, considering his words. “Then it was when he first held it.”

With a wistful sigh, Bran lifted the sword again. “I wish I could hold Ice, but it’s going to be yours. Why can’t the second sons have great swords?”

“Uncle Benjen has a great sword,” Robb started, but Bran looked away.

“Father was the second son, uncle Benjen is the third son. Rickon will get the great sword and I’ll get nothing,” he said, sounding petulant.

Robb knelt before him and took the sword from his hands. “Bran, you are descended of the Kings of Winter. You will never have nothing, never be nothing. You are the blood of house Stark.”

“But there isn’t another great sword.”

Grasping his arm with his left hand, Robb replied. “We can always make another great sword that you can pass down to your own children. Starks are not defined by the weapon that we wield. Now tell me who you are.”

“I am the blood of house Stark,” Bran repeated, looking Robb dead in the eyes.

Robb rose from his knees and thumped him on the back with his free hand. “Go on inside and talk to Mikken, I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss swords with you until the sun sets.”

Bran was off like an arrow into the castle while Robb handed Rodrik the sword that they had been using for practice. The doors opened and out stepped Ellaria Sand and her children, Rhaenys’ little cousins spilled through.

They raced across the courtyard to their father and launched themselves into his waiting arms. He thought that all five of them would tumble to the ground with the weight, but instead Oberyn held them upright with surprising strength. Then again, Prince Oberyn’s looks were deceiving. Robb could still remember carrying a reminder of that on his ribs.

The courtyard filled quicker than he had ever seen, Sansa walked in with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, giggling behind their hands. He imagined that they were gossiping about something or another. Behind them trailed Arya, who was seemingly being chastised by Septa Mordane. _Arya Underfoot,_ he thought to himself, stopping the smile that briefly flitted across his lips. She winked at him and this time he couldn’t suppress the grin.

Closely behind them followed his mother, who was holding Rickon’s hand and talking to Vayon Poole. She looked concerned about something, but she always did. It was his mother’s nature to worry, especially when there were such important guests, even if they were leaving. Rickon dug his heels into the dirt, trying not to move, but Catelyn Stark paid him no mind, pulling him along with her.

His father was the last one to enter the courtyard. He was solemn as ever and stood beside him. “How is Rhaenys? I’m sure this is very difficult for her.”

“When I spoke with her last night, she seemed… prepared.”

“I hope so.”

The pair of them watched silently as Rhaenys threw her arms around each member of her family. Her mouth moved, but the bustling in the courtyard made it impossible to hear the words that passed her lips.

Prince Oberyn approached Robb and held his hand out to clasp. “I hope that your journey home to Dorne will be pleasant,” Robb took the hand and shook it.

“As do I, Lord Robb. I trust that my niece will be safe in your hands.”

“Of course, Prince Oberyn.” Robb replied, as his hand was released. Oberyn’s grip was more painful than it had been the day they had arrived.

He exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes with the rest of the Martell household, including Arianne, who reminded him of the threat she had made on his wedding night as she leant in to give him an embrace.

Rhaenys didn’t cry as she said farewell to her family, but he could see tears gathering in her eyes and her voice trembled like a leaf. Her hands would linger around the shoulders of the others; she stared longingly as her little cousins stepped away from her. 

Once they were loaded onto the wheelhouse, she stepped back and stood beside him. Her hands were shaking, and her breathing was fast. Without thinking he laced his fingers with hers.

She squeezed tightly and looked towards the horizon as the procession disappeared through the gates. As the rest of the household moved around and returned to their duties, Rhaenys and Robb remained were they were, with him trying to offer her some form of comfort and her looking terribly alone.

The feeling must have continued because that night, Rhaenys lay in the bed silent and still. He shed his clothing until he was just in his breeches and sat on the bed besides her, reaching out to hold her free hand that rested above the furs. When she didn’t pull away, but instead looked at him, he decided it was safe for him to speak.

“How are you?” Robb asked, running his finger across the back of her hand in slow circles.

“I miss them so much already,” she whispered still looking out the window and into the blackness of the night. “This is the first time I’ve really been away from them since...” she trailed off and he knew exactly what she was thinking about.

He nodded, not quite sure what to say. Robb wanted to say that he understood, but he didn’t. The longest he’d been away from his family was a moon turn and it was exciting for him. He couldn’t fathom the loss she was feeling at watching the only people she had known all her life disappear back to Dorne. She was brave, so incredibly brave for it.

“The worst part is not knowing when I’ll see them again. It could be years before I do, or uncle Doran might die before I see him again. The day I left could have been the last time. It’s truly terrible, not knowing.”

“Do you want to talk about them? It might make you feel better.” Robb had no idea what he should say, but Rhaenys shook her head silently and sat up in bed. She was always so elegant when she moved, as if every motion was part of a dance.

“If I do, I’ll never stop,” she said.

With a crooked smile, he stroked her hand. “Would that really be so bad?”

“You’ll get sick of it in minutes.”

“Are you so sure of that?” Robb replied. “We’ve been married for a moon turn, known each other for two and I’ve yet to tire of you.”

“Just give it thirty years,” Rhaenys said.

“I don’t think I could ever tire of you. Not in a moons turn, not in thirty years.”

Her cheeks flushed pink and despite her efforts, a small smile forced its way onto her lips. “Do you know what will make me feel better?” she asked him, and he shook his head.

“What?”

Almost as if the request made her uncomfortable, like she was frightened of what he might say, she looked away. “Can you hold me?”

Robb slipped behind her and she leant back against him, head pillowed by his chest. Almost unconsciously, his arms slipped around her waist and he held her tight. “Of course,” he said softly. “Anything.”

There they stayed, until the dark of the night lulled them both into slumber.


	9. WOLVES IN THE SNOW

For once, Robb was lying next to her that morning, fast asleep. While he slept it was so much easier to look at him, to admire him, to think about him the way wives were supposed to think about their husbands. He was on his front, face turned to her, hand reaching out across the sheets.

He was a tonic, soothing her shattered nerves and tired mind.

Rhaenys turned to lie on her side and look at him properly. To see all the soft lines and hard planes of his face, he had to be asleep. Robb was so guarded the rest of the time. He had a part to play, the soon to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and now, she would have to do the same.

With her family gone, she could no longer hide behind her cousins and uncle, trying to accommodate them first. She would embrace her new role.

Rhaenys reached her hand out carefully and brushed away the hair that had fallen into his face. He stirred and she pulled back, scared that she had woken him. He was always so good at letting her sleep when he woke before her; the seven knew that she needed it.

“Morning,” he murmured, opening his eyes blearily. He stretched and the muscles in his shoulders flexed.

“Did I wake you?”

“It’s alright,” Robb said with a weak smile. “I’ve had worse awakenings than lying in bed with my beautiful wife.” He stroked her cheek and she looked away, flushing.

“But still, you always let me sleep,” she said.

The corner of Robb’s lip rose. “You always look so at peace, I don’t want to disturb you.”

“You should wake me, sometimes at least,” Rhaenys glanced away to the sun streaming through the window. “I feel guilty that you’re always in the solar doing seven knows what before I’m able to even open my eyes.”

“If you like, I’ll wake you every morning before I leave,” he said, straight faced. “You and I can have a long conversation while we break our fast in the great hall before the maid servants have even opened their eyes. In fact, we can talk while the moon is still in the sky.”

She grabbed behind her head and hit him lightly on the back with one of the pillows, but he caught her hand as she withdrew. She dropped it and tried to pull away, but he held fast. “Let go,” Rhaenys giggled, but he drew her closer and pressed kisses along the inside of her wrist.

She melted, trying to keep from rolling him over and mounting him at that very second. All to soon he relented and gave her wrist one final kiss and fell back onto the furs holding her against his chest.

“I had a strange dream last night,” Rhaenys said, directing it to his ribs. She knew that he was listening but didn’t bother rolling over. She was much too comfortable.

“What was it about?”

She took a breath and closed her eyes. “I was in the Red Keep again,” Rhaenys felt him stiffen beneath her, but continued. “When I was a little girl there, I used to have a cat. His name was Balerion the Black Dread. He was named after a dragon.”

“Tis a frightening name,” Robb said, and she could feel the rumble of his words.

“He wasn’t really scary. I loved him to bits. I would chase him all through the corridors until my mother scooped me up and took me kicking and screaming back to the nursery.

“How much do you remember about King’s Landing? You told me about Tilla and some of the games you played there, but never about a cat.”

Rhaenys thought back, flipping through memories like pages in a book. “Bits and pieces come and go. Sometimes I think I remember things about my family, but I think it was just stories being elaborated in my head.” She changed positions so that she was resting her chin on his sternum and looked up to him. “I can definitely recall Balerion though.”

“What happened to him after the…” Robb trailed off, not sure if he wanted to address it.

“I don’t know.” He would be eight and ten if he still lived, which she doubted. His muzzle would be grey, and he would probably spend his days in a single spot of sunlight away from all the other animals of the keep. But he was long dead now. “When I was spirited to Dorne I barely had time to put on shoes, let alone find my cat. But he was in my dream.”

“And what was he doing in this dream?”

“That was the strange bit,” Rhaenys said, arching an eyebrow and looked up at his face. “He was running away from me. I kept trying to chase him and he wouldn’t let me catch him. I was like a child again.”

She stretched her legs under the furs as if she was trying to remember what it was like to be a child and continued. “I turned around for a second and behind me was a great big wolf that was stalking me. Every time Balerion moved, I went after him and the wolf came after me.”

It had been a truly maddening dream, but she hadn’t truly been frightened of the wolf. It seemed to only be protecting her from unseen predators, chasing away the shadows that lurked outside the windows. It moved like the wind, darting past columns, fur the same color as smoke.

“I finally managed to catch Balerion in the old nursery. It was destroyed. The curtains had been shredded, the furniture and the crib were in pieces. As I went to hug Balerion, he changed. He grew wings and instead of yowling in discontent, he began to breathe fire. I let him go and instead of vanishing like before, he transformed into a fully-grown dragon and sat in the nursery of Maegor’s Holdfast next to the wolf.”

“You’re right. That is a strange dream,” Robb said. “I’ve yet to hear about a cat that turns into a dragon. I must ask Old Nan if she has heard of such a thing.”

Rhaenys rolled off of his chest and lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. “They talk about white walkers and skin wargers and trees that can talk in the North. Why not a cat that can turn into a dragon?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Why not indeed?”

It was silent, Robb held her hand and smiled at her.

“I ought to get up anyway.” He rolled over onto his back and sat up. “I’m sure my father is expecting me.”

She smiled softly, tilting her head as he rose from the bed. “Must you go?”

“I’m afraid I have to, my lady.” He leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead before standing. “If I stay for even longer, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave.”

“Is that so bad?” she repeated his words from last night, trying to entice him to stay just a little bit longer. Rhaenys leant on her forearm, admiring the view and letting the furs fall away from her chest.

“It certainly is if you are the Lord of Winterfell,” he turned from where he was pulling on his breeches and took her in with wide eyes. “Do you delight in torturing me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “A little bit.”

“You’ll have to torture me that little bit more,” Robb said, and he put on his tunic and she dropped back down on the bed like a sulking child. “Go back to sleep Rhae. This is probably the last good rest you’ll have.”

 _He called me Rhae! He’s never called me that before!_ She reached for his hand, trying to lure him back to bed, but he kissed her knuckles instead and then he stepped out the door.

She flung herself back onto the bed, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Rhaenys never thought that she would be so happy about a childhood nickname coming out of the mouth of her husband. Snuggling back under the furs, she hugged herself tightly and stared at the ceiling. It was a strange thing, how comfortable they were becoming with one another, but not unwelcome. _No, not unwelcome at all._

 

***

 

Not long after he had left, she rose from the bed, dressing quickly. Her fingers began to ache as she laced up the front of her dress, a light blue that matched the cloudless sky above Sunspear. Northern dresses were so dark that it made her feel miserable to dress in them. Wearing lighter colors was so much more pleasant and it made her feel better.

Her clothes were still piled haphazardly in the corner of the room, where she had left them the night before, so tormented by grief and longing that being neat wasn’t predominant in her thoughts.

But then Robb had come in and it was like he could read her thoughts, as if he knew what she was thinking before her mouth opened. Not for the first time she could imagine them being happy together, being in love and maybe even having children.

Rhaenys shook her head, trying to clear it. Now was not the time to begin daydreaming.

As she left the warmth of the walls, her breath began to appear before her in clouds of white. _Winter is Coming_ , she thought to herself. They were the Stark words, her words now.

The snow in the tiltyard had melted the day before, but overnight it had frozen and now it was ice, and once more Rhaenys thanked the gods that her family had left yesterday and not later. The summer snows would not hold off for much longer and she feared that the Dornish men would not be able to traverse the Kingsroad for much longer.

Catelyn Stark was watching as supplies arrived from the south, piled high on a cart. Lifting her skirts to avoid the occasional puddle, Rhaenys joined her. “Good morning Lady Stark,” she said, giving a little head nod.

“Good morning to you too, and how many times must I ask you to call me Catelyn?”

“Apologies, I’m still a bit tired. It wasn’t easy to sleep last night.”

With a sympathetic smile, Catelyn replied. “I understand. When I left Riverrun to come North I struggled as well, but in time I came to see it as my home, sometimes more so than the Riverlands themselves.”

“They are very different, the North and Dorne,” Rhaenys said wistfully. ”But I miss my family most, I know it’s only been a day, but this is the longest I’ve been away from them.”

“Family is difficult to part from,” she agreed. “Speaking of such, where is Robb? I was wondering if I could talk with him.”

“Robb and my husband have ridden off to deal with a deserter south of the wall. Lord Stark received a letter from Lord Commander Mormont this morning. They should return soon.”

Rhaenys stopped shot. Did they not have an executioner? Why wasn’t the deserter just sent back to the wall to face their justice? Why did the Warden of the North have to handle it? Would Robb?

“In the meantime,” Catelyn continued, “I was wondering if you might take Rickon for a walk? He admires you and sometimes can be quite the terror with the maidservants, running through the godswood making a scene.”

“Of course,” she replied, shocked. She rarely spent time with the Stark children, Rickon least of all. The littlest wolf was normally wreaking havoc in the Keep, chasing around Bran, desperate to climb after him along the granite walls.

“He should be with Maester Luwin in the turret, if you would like to fetch him? He supposed to be learning his letters, but I’m sure that he would jump at the chance to escape,” she replied. “He shouldn’t be too rambunctious.”

Rhaenys gathered her skirts so she could move properly and gave a sort of half curtsey, the only kind she could really manage in the unwieldy dress she wore. “I’ll go get him.”

Catelyn smiled pleasantly and turned as Vayon Poole handed her a letter. The seal was partly covered, but Rhaenys was sure it was from the crown. From Baratheon.

Winterfell was increasingly easier to traverse, she knew where almost everything was. When she had first arrived, it took almost an hour to find where everything was. She nearly wandered into the crypts by accident.

As she made her way up the stairs to the turret, Rhaenys realized that she now knew more about Winterfell then Dragonstone, where she had been born, and the Red Keep, where she had lived. It was a strange thought, one that she banished from her mind.

“No Rickon, put the quill back,” it was the Maester’s voice, exasperated. “That is not a letter, that is a scribble.”

A loud huff came from behind the door. “Yes, it is a letter, it’s an ‘R’. Robb showed me.”

“No, it is not.” There was a shuffling of papers and another sigh. “It is a scribble.”

Rhaenys knocked hard on the solid wood.

“Enter,” called Luwin and she pushed open the door.

“Lady Stark asked if I would take Rickon for a walk, would that be alright?”

A quick flash of relief came over his face, but it was quickly buried under a schooled mask of serenity. “Yes, that would be fine- “

“Really? Can we go now?” Rickon interrupted and dropped the quill that he was fiddling with onto the table. He bounced out of his chair immediately. “Let’s go!” He shot to her side, nearly tripping over the edge of his cloak in his haste to reach her and began to pull at her skirts towards the doorway.

“I’m coming don’t worry,” Rhaenys said. “Thank you Maester Luwin, I’ll be sure to return him soon.”

“No need to hurry,” he replied, talking to himself as Rickon ushered her out the door and down the stairs to the godswood.

He was quick and reminded her of her youngest cousins. A bundle of energy that would rarely sit still, just like Loreza and Dorea when they were little. “Come on Rhaenys, let’s go!”

“Are you sure you’re warm enough Rickon?” The bite of the wind made her wince as they stepped out of the tower.

“Yes,” his hand went to the ermine mantle that he wore, curtesy of his mother. “I can’t ever get cold! I’m a Stark!”

“Indeed, you are,” she replied as he raced ahead of her into the godswood. “A little wolf, but one nonetheless.”

He turned around and there was enough space between that he had to shout and with a wide grin on his face Rickon cried; “Catch me!”

Gathering the material of her skirts away from her feet so that she wouldn’t trip, Rhaenys broke into a run after him. The leaves crunched beneath her feet and she tried her very best to keep up with him, but he wasn’t hinder by heavy clothes. She could run quicker in her Dornish silks and she had an irrational want for them, even though she well aware that she would freeze in minutes.

“Rickon, would you slow down?” she called from behind him.

“No, I’m a wolf!”

 _What happened to going for a walk? That’s what I thought we were going to do, not chase him through the godswood!_ Rhaenys thought to herself, panting, with stark realization. _I used to be able to hold my own in a sparring match for an hour. Now I can barely keep up with a mere boy!_

He vanished into the dark of the woods and she could no longer see him. “Rickon? Where are you?” she received no reply, instead just the whistling of the wind. “Rickon?”

It was with trepidation that she followed the path he had taken. She knew where she was, she had been here before with Robb, but still, it was different now. Something felt different.

A branch snapped underfoot, and it made Rhaenys jump out of her skin and she turned quickly to see Robb emerging from the trees holding a bundle of _something_ in his hands.

“Are you making a habit of sneaking up on me?” she said, trying to slow her quickly beating heart.

“It’s entirely accidental, I assure you,” he replied, looking sheepish. “I have something to show you.”

Rhaenys crossed to him, brow furrowed. “What is it?” It was fluffy and small, like a puppy or a kitten. The grey bundle of fur let out a small whimper and Rhaenys paused apprehensively. 

“It’s a direwolf pup,” Robb replied and as he spoke, the small nose poked out and sniffed the air.

“I thought they were extinct?” The last she had heard in Dorne, they were, but it was not a dinner topic, the existence of direwolves in the North. She thought they had died off after the long night, or at least retreated beyond the wall.

“Apparently not,” he said with a small smile. “His mother was a great hulking thing, bigger than Bran’s pony. She was dead when we found her, felled by a stag. They ripped each other apart. The pups were the only things left alive, whimpering for their mother.”

“How did you find them?” she asked, giving the pups head a cursory scratch. She had always preferred cats, perhaps it was Balerion’s influence, but this direwolf was a sweet thing. “I thought that you were going to execute that deserter?”

“Aye, and we did. It was on the way back. Jon and I went ahead, and I saw it, half on the path, half off. I thought it was a bear at first, so I dismounted and then I saw the wee things rooting around to feed.”

“The poor thing looks barely a day old, no wonder it needs to eat.”

 “Believe me, it’ll grow,” Robb said and then looked around the godswood. “Speaking of growing, where’s Rickon? My mother said that you were walking with him when I asked.”

“He ran off, I was looking for him but then you appeared and nearly made me faint,” she tried to appear serious.

“My apologies,” he was genuinely sincere.

She suppressed a smile and turned away, peering around the trees. “It was a jape Robb, but we really should find him. The seven know what kind of mischief he could be getting into.”

“Aye and I have a present for him,” he paused for effect, speaking louder in case Rickon was lurking. “This was not the only direwolf we found. There were six, one for each of my father’s children.”

A little part of her sighed wistfully. As childish as it sounded, she wished that there could've been one more wolf for her. But she was not born a Stark, instead she was one by marriage. A northern creature like a direwolf would not have taken to her dragons blood like it would take to the Stark's wolf blood. If she wished for a pet so desperately, she was perfectly capable of getting her own.

The pair of them began to walk through the woods, following the path that he had taken, ducking beneath low branches and stepping over awkward roots that seemed determined to trip them up.

“Have you named yours?” he looked confused, so she clarified the question. “The direwolf pup I mean.”

“I was thinking about Grey Wind.”

It fit the little direwolf, conjuring up images of a creature that was like a blur as it raced through the woods, darting between trees and leaving the smallfolk wondering if it had all been their imagination. With what little Robb had said of the mother, Rhaenys could imagine that it would be a monstrous thing.

“It is a good name,” she replied, and the trees rustled. Out of the dark, burst Rickon, looking far less neat than earlier. Leaves poked from his hair and his knees were muddy and wet. There was a tiny tear in the fabric of his doublet, but he couldn’t have looked happier.

“You’re slow Rhaenys!” he started then saw who was standing beside her. “Robb!”

“Why do you keep running off?” Robb scolded him. For a fleeting moment, she could picture him as the Lord of Winterfell. “Poor Rhae was worried sick looking for you. I might not be able to give you your present.”

Rickon’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” When he was sure his apology had worked, he perked up. “Can I have my present now?”

“It’s alright, I accept your apology.”

“Come with me Rickon.” Robb said and as he went to move, Robb added a final bit. “And no running off!”

He still shot ahead but this time stayed in their line of view, while Robb walked by her side, holding the pup in his arms. “The others are in the kitchen, discussing names, but I’m going to drop him off at the kennels first,” he looked pointedly at the little direwolf who let out a plaintive whine. “I’ll meet you there.” He leant over and pressed a kiss to her temple before heading in the direction of the kennels.

“Rickon, would you slow down? stay close!” Robb shouted as his little brother raced off again after giving her a small goodbye wave.

She reached the kitchens, where Bran, Arya and Sansa were arguing about what the names of their direwolves.

“I’m going to call mine Nymeria!” Arya announced as soon as Rhaenys entered. She looked the most excited of all the Stark siblings, starry-eyed and probably in love already. Robb had said that Arya once volunteered to help him muck out the kennels with Harwin because she wanted to spend more time with the dogs. “Nymeria, after Nymeria of Ny Sar.”

“That’s a good name,” Rhaenys said, thinking back to the books that she had been given about her ancestor by Arianne. She ought to lend them to Arya, she would enjoy them. “A strong name.”

“Mine is Lady,” Sansa said, looking demure but grateful. Once again, Rhaenys was struck by the differences of the two of them. Not just their appearances, but their character as well. _The direwolves would probably take after their mistresses just the same._

Next to them was Bran, chewing his lip and looking terribly serious. “What about you? What will you name yours?” she asked him.

He tilted his head and drummed his fingers on his thigh. “I don’t know. Nothing feels right,” he scowled suddenly. “Jon named his Ghost and I wish that I’d thought of that first, even if mine isn’t an albino like his.”

At that moment Robb entered, followed by a very subdued Rickon. “I don’t like it,” he muttered quietly.

“It’s a puppy Rickon, why ever not?” Arya replied, and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

He stared at the ground. “Robb said that he was going to get big and scary.”

She glared at Robb and he shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t think that he would take it seriously.”

“Father told me that they can tear off a man’s arm with one bite!”

“Bran!”

“What?” he shrugged, nonchalantly, seemingly unaware of Rickon’s stricken expression. “It’s true, that’s what father said, and father never lies.”

“Still,” Robb said. “There’s no need to frighten him.”

In an effort to change the subject, Rhaenys forced out a smile. “What are you going to call yours Rickon?”

He shrugged, still unsure about the entire situation. “I’m not sure.”

“He can’t go about without a name,” Arya said, giving him a toothy grin.

Rickon stayed still like he was pondering the question. “I think I’ll call him Shaggydog.”

Stifling a giggle, Rhaenys nodded solemnly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, slightly more confidently. Rickon’s eyes brightened and for the first time he seemed happy about the whole arrangement, about getting his own direwolf. “His name is Shaggydog.”

“Are you sure you don’t know what you’re going to call yours Bran?”

“No, but I’ll try some out.”

“That’s a good idea,” murmured Arya like she didn’t want anyone to here, but then she sent a pointed smirk to Sansa. “Better not choose the first name that comes into your head like _someone_.”

“Lady is a good name,” Sansa replied primly, sending a dirty look to Arya. “It is a proper name.”

“For a rabbit,” Arya scoffed, reciprocating the scowl in kind. “Not for a direwolf.”

“Better that than no name at all.”

“Stop it Sansa,” Bran snapped. “I’ll think of a name, but not now. Later.”

“Fine.” She turned her nose up and flounced away, tossing her red hair behind her.

Robb slipped behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist. Rhaenys leant back against him, cushioning her head against his chest. “I must say, I never thought that I’d ever see a direwolf. I thought seeing a dragon would be more likely.”

She could feel the rumble of his chest as he chuckled. “Well, sometimes you never know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached canon! From here on I'll be playing it pretty fast and loose, some stuff will stay the same, but a lot will differ. Don't worry I haven't forgotten about Jon Arryn, I'll be addressing that in the next chapter, but I wanted to put in some happy moments before shit hits the fan.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!


	10. THE DEATH OF THE FALCON

“I’ve never seen a man die before,” Rhaenys said to Robb quietly as they broke their fast in the great hall. It was what she had thought of that night, as he lay next to her, fast asleep. It was strange. She hadn’t even seen the execution, but it still kept her awake.

She had seen a sick man, one so ill that he might as well have been dead, but never a body. When they had killed her mother, she had been draped in the Lannister colors to try and disguise the depravity, or at least that’s what she had been told. They had done the same with her brother and even grown men could not bear the sight.

“Good, it’s not something that anyone really should see,” he replied, a distant look appearing on his face. “I was nine when Father took me the first time. My mother argued, but he was insistent, saying that he had been even younger.”

Rhaenys tried to picture the Lord of Winterfell as a child, but failed miserably. All she could see was the body of a little boy, the same size as Bran, with Eddard Stark’s serious face.

“Jon came with us the first time. He was braver than I; he didn’t flinch when the sword came down, standing a stoic as any battle weary man,” Robb reminisced. His fingers twitched against his thigh as if the muscle memory of that day had come rushing back. “I remember jerking away at the spray of blood and red dripping off the blade of Ice. When it hit the snow, it was so bright against the white I was shocked.”

She blinked at the description. It was more than she expected but it was not necessarily unwelcome. Bran had gone and he was only eleven, still a child really. She was a woman grown and death was something that had stalked her from a young age. Rhaenys ought to know how a man died.

“The deserter died well yesterday. He didn’t cry or beg for his life, and I have seen both. Some men cried for their mothers, others tried to barter for their lives,” Robb voice became quieter as he receded farther into his head. “There have been more desertions lately, five in the last year. ”

“From the Night’s Watch?”

He swallowed hard and nodded like he knew something she didn’t. “Aye. And the wildlings are making their way south of the wall too. Most of them are raving by the time they are caught, muttering about the Others.”

She couldn’t quite remember what he had told her about them. They were white walkers, dead men who lived, but not truly. He had mentioned something about the Long Night and Bran the Builder. “Isn’t that just a legend?”

“Yes, something Old Nan told us to get us to go to bed,” Robb said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. “The deserter probably went mad from hunger or cold or both to start talking about them as if they were real. It was probably just savage wildlings and he couldn’t believe that men could truly do such a thing.”

Rhaenys bit her lip and looked away. She was living proof of the depravity of men.

At the head of the table, Lord Stark appeared much more solemn than usual as he broke his fast. He murmured quietly to Lady Catelyn, who was also very subdued. She swallowed some sweetbread as Robb whispered in her ear. “Father received word that Jon Arryn died yesterday.”

She froze, food halfway to her mouth. _The Hand of the King was dead?_

“He was here not four moons ago for the wedding,” she said frowning. “How?”

“Father told me that it was a fever, or at least what the letter said.”

Rhaenys thought back to the first time she had seen Jon Arryn, watching him walk around the Keep as she hid behind pillars. She was a mere child in Sunspear while he negotiated for her life and for the bones of her mother and brother. He had been an imposing man despite his advancing age, someone that she could not see dying from something as trivial as a fever.

“It will be your father, won’t it?” It was not even a question, they both knew it was true. Robert Baratheon trusted Eddard Stark with his life. And he trusted him with his throne. “The new hand of the King will be your father.”

“That’s what he suspects. But we might learn of someone new being named within the coming weeks.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “We won’t.”

“You know what this means Rhae,” Robb said slowly, cautiously. “The king is coming north.”

The reaction was not immediate. She didn’t like to think about Robert Baratheon or the crown at all. He never went to Dorne and had never come north at all, but very few kings ventured above the neck.

“To Winterfell?”

“Yes, with his wife-“ Robb began before she cut him off.

“And the rest of the Lannisters,” it was not fear or apprehension in her voice. It was fury. A little voice asked if they would bring Gregor Clegane too, just to complete the humiliation and disrespect to her and to her mother. The Mountain that Rides, the rapist and murderer who was never punished for his part in the Sack. It had never been confirmed that it was him who killed her mother and brother while accompanied by Amory Lorch, but she knew. Of course she knew, but she had never seen his face and nobody took her word for it. She hid her hands beneath her skirts, trying to conceal the trembling.

Oberyn had told her many times when he was too drunk to remember his words the next morning that if he got the chance, he would make sure Gregor Clegane died the worst death imaginable. He would get recompense for what had been done to his sister, and the Mountain would die screaming for mercy. Her uncle hated Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister for shielding him, and had sworn to her once on his knees, blackout drunk and clinging to the front of her dress like a sobbing child, that Elia would be avenged.

Robb chewed on his bottom lip and he suddenly looked like a boy, like Bran or Rickon. She knew that he had no idea how to reply to her. “Yes.”

“Please excuse me,” she murmured, rising from the chair.

“Rhae-“ he went to follow her but she shook her head.

“I can’t,” her voice was thick and despite her best efforts, she could feel panic filling her heart. “I have, I have to be alone.”

He looked uncertain, but Rhaenys did her best to give him a reassuring smile that was probably more like a grimace. “If you’re sure?”

With a little bob of her head, she fled the room trying her best not to run.

It was the sept, the comfort of her gods- that was where she needed to go. Empty most of the time, very few of the northerners ever ventured into the home of the seven. She normally felt like an intruder, but now she needed something to remind her of her own mother.

She once visited the Sept of Baelor, or at least that was what she had been told. According to her uncle Doran, not long after her second nameday, her father had taken her to the Sept to pray for the health of her mother. Rhaenys could not remember the building, but she was told that it was a fitting tribute to the gods.

But sometimes the more opulent a sept, the more it masked its sins. Winterfell’s was simple but elegant. As she knelt before the mother, she tried to imagine herself as a child in King’s Landing.

If not for Rhaegar’s folly, she would probably still be there having tea parties in Maegor’s Holdfast and gossiping about one scandal or another just like she used to in Sunspear. She would attend court and curtsey prettily to the Lords and try to ignore the cruel words that were said behind her back. She would’ve been far more proficient in embroidery instead of with a weapon and perhaps assisted with the ladies in waiting.

She might have even been wed, but not to the Robb Stark like she was now, to her little brother.

She shuddered. In her mind Aegon was still the silver haired babe who stole the affections of her mother, the little boy who she sang to when neither of them could sleep, a squalling thing who despite annoying her, was her brother who she loved with her heart.

A burst of anger ignited her blood. Rhaenys could not continue dreaming of what-ifs. Her mother was dead, her father was dead too. Her aunt and uncle exiled to the Free Cities. Aemon at the wall was the only other dragon in Westeros, but he was sworn to the Night’s Watch.

The realization struck her suddenly. She was alone and had been for some time, but now she didn’t have to be.

 

***

 

There were letters updating the Starks on the procession of the royals. It was mind numbingly slow, apparently because the queen’s wheelhouse was so terribly unwieldy. It had taken the Dornish party moons to return to Sunspear and even longer to send word of their safe journey back. When Robb had brought the letter to Rhaenys from her uncle Doran, she had almost cried with relief.

“I was worried about him,” she said, clutching the parchment to her chest. “This is the first I’ve heard from him since I left.” When she saw his confusion, she explained further. “He has gout, and has been getting weaker. That’s way he didn’t venture North with my uncle Oberyn. He can barely walk now, using a stick and a wheeled chair in dire cases to get around.”

“I didn’t know,” Robb crossed his arms over his chest. “Nobody ever mentioned it.”

“He doesn’t want anyone to know. It will make him appear weak,” she replied. “But just because his physical health is deteriorating doesn’t mean he’s not as sharp as ever. We used to play cyvasse in his solar when I was a little girl. Not often, but enough that I learned the basics of tactics.”

“I hope that you never have to use those skills.”

“As do I,” Rhaenys answered distantly, already thinking of something else.

She did that quite a lot, vanished into her own head. The day that the King declared he was coming north, she had darted off somewhere. She had said that she wanted to be alone, so he had left her for a while, but then he began to worry. At first he had looked in the godswood, but then realized that she was probably in the Sept.

The Seven were his gods, but he had never truly cared for them as much as Sansa or his mother did. He was drawn to the old gods, the ones without names who the Northerners worshipped without fail.

The nameless and faceless gods that were wilder than the north itself. Robb had been raised on such stories of the children of the forest. When he was still small, his father sat him on his knee and spoke about the Andals who invaded and cut down all the weirwood trees in the south, forcing their religion on the smallfolk. But the north stood strong and the north remembered.

He was right; Rhaenys was in the sept, prostrate before the mother. He watched her for a while, wondering what he should say. He did not know if she was upset, or angry or praying simply because she could. Despite his best efforts, he barely knew her. She was a complex woman; it was not easy to sort through all the things that she told him and the things that she hadn’t

But he knew that when she asked to be left alone, she meant it. He remained there for a few more moments like he wanted to protect her as she beseeched the gods and then turned to step into the cold wind.

Rhaenys was still in prayer when he left.

During the time it took for the crown to travel north, the direwolf pups grew exponentially. Grey Wind was the quickest of them all, moving fast as an arrow through the godswood so that all anyone could see was a streak of grey fur darting between the trees.

His sibling’s wolves grew too. Lady was the best trained of them all; heeding Sansa’s every command. She was placid as a direwolf could be, barely even howling, instead letting out tiny whines.

Nymeria was trained well enough, but still had a streak of wild, much like Arya herself. She would fight with the other wolves, most often with Shaggydog or Bran’s nameless one, who followed him around everywhere.

Out of them all, Shaggydog was the liability. Perhaps it was because Rickon was a child who didn’t know how to treat a wolf. He had bitten Farlen one morning trying to escape the kennels after Rickon had a tantrum about having a bath. It was a tiny nip really, but he had bitten someone nonetheless and was relegated to the kennels with the rest of the hounds. Father had told Rickon that his direwolf would have to stay chained for the entire royal visit unless he managed to control him, which had sent Rickon into another tantrum.

When he was not busy with other duties, Robb spent time with his direwolf, training him and letting him go free in the godswood. He would come back with a bloodied muzzle, but it was better to keep him fed and healthy than worry about Grey Wind searching for food elsewhere.

He had been with the wolf in the woods when his father had come looking for him.

“You are training him well,” Eddard Stark said, watching the two of them with a tenderness that Robb recognized from his childhood.

“I am trying, but Grey Wind is a wild animal. I do not think he will ever truly to subservient to men.”

“No, no he will not,” replied his father, the frown lines between his brows deepening. “It is well enough that you know that now. You must be careful when Robert arrives. His children have never been around creatures like them.”

Robb nodded. He had heard that the princes and princess were sheltered, having never been north of Harrenhall. “How long until they reach Winterfell?”

“A few days, if not less. It is not easy to predict how well a wheelhouse will maneuver over the snow. They must be careful.”

When the Martells had come north, their wheelhouse was small, housing the younger daughters of Oberyn. The rest of the party had ridden and it had taken much less time to make the journey.

“Father, I was meaning to ask you a question,” Robb began and his lord father gestured for him to continue. “I want to get Rhaenys her own horse. She used to have a sandsteed in Dorne and she misses riding her own.”

“You would have to speak with Hullen,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’m sure that would not be a problem.”

Robb had planned to give Rhaenys the horse the next day after inspecting it a few times and speaking to the master of stables, but before he could, banners approached. The King and the rest of the royal party had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The death of the Falcon (and its repercussions) is what this was called in my drafts but I prefer it shorter. The next few chapter get relatively canon compliant, but after that we veer sharply into no mans land. Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


	11. A STAG IN THE NORTH

The pit in her stomach grew heavier as the household gathered in the courtyard. There was a low buzz of excitement in the crowd, laughter and questions galore. As the Stark’s filed in from the Great Keep, Rickon tugged on his mother’s hand and Bran chattered away to Robb with a smile on his face, but to Rhaenys, it felt like a cloud had descended on Winterfell.

The noise of the horses outside was overwhelming and the anticipation was making her feel sick.

_It’s nerves, I’m nervous about being introduced as Robb’s wife._ Rhaenys consoled herself with those words, repeating over and over again as a mantra, but in the back of her mind, she knew that she wasn’t nervous. She was frightened. Robert Baratheon had tried to have her killed; the Lannisters had nearly managed to accomplish his wish and now she was to be face to face with the man who had helped eradicate her entire family.

She stood beside Robb, who stared forwards looking as regal as his father. He had been shaved that morning on the orders of Lady Catelyn, which he had complained about. With no stubble he looked much younger, much less worldly than he truly was.

Would the King look as regal as the Starks? Would he be the kind of man who appeared like he was born to rule?

Her Grandfather hadn’t, with a gaunt face and uncut nails that made her shy away in fear that he would cut her. He had just turned forty when the rebellion happened, but he looked like a dead man when he was sat upon the Iron Throne.

On a whim, her hand darted out from under the warmth of her cape and grasped Robb’s tightly. His brow furrowed and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, concerned.

He laced his fingers with hers and gave her hand a comforting squeeze and for just a moment, the pit shrunk.

The thundering of hooves and rustles of banners grew louder, as well as the shouts of men calling for attention. It was becoming deafening, hard to hear even the beating of her heart and one look at the three youngest Stark children showed a barely concealed grin on all their faces. Excitement mixed with anticipation.

Then came the flurry of black and gold through the gates. It was garish and bright, a stark contrast to the grey and white of the castle around them. The Baratheon colors made her wince, as did the red and gold of the Lannister lions that appeared as much as, if not more than the stag.

Riding in the front of the procession were the sworn knights of the Kingsguard. She did not know them like she had as a girl. There was no Arthur Dayne, Lewyn Martell, Oswell Whent, Gerold Hightower or Jonothor Darry, the soldiers of her youth who had been like ghosts, always drifting around Maegor’s Holdfast. She had been raised on a steady diet of their exploits and was told tales of their prowess with weapons.

The white cloaks, as they were so aptly called, were as much a fixture in her childhood as her own mother had been. Sentinels standing guard in all aspects if her day to day life. Occasionally she would sneak out and watch them train to become the deadliest men alive.

They were all gone now, their skills with a sword had not helped them in the end. Her great uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell had died at the Trident with her father, Ser Jonothor Darry too. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had lost their lives at the tower of joy in Dorne with the dying Lyanna Stark. Only Barristan the Bold and Jaime Lannister lived through Robert's Rebellion.

Between two of the white clad knights was a huge man who looked large enough to crush the poor creature he was riding on. Upon his head was a golden crown, something that must have been forged to get rid of the ones that Targaryen’s once wore. His hair was the same color as the deepest void and beard was black and coarse across his chin, nowhere as neat as Lord Stark’s. But his eyes were bright blue, even if a little bloodshot and bleary. At that moment, Rhaenys became painfully aware that she was face to face with the usurper.

He leapt from his horse with the agility of a much younger and slimmer man. The Stark household went to kneel but instead of waiting for them to rise again, Robert Baratheon embraced Eddard Stark with an audibly thump.

“Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours!” said the King, looking him up and down as if he was comparing the pair of them, his massive gut and double chin to the Stark Lord’s strong and lithe body. “You have not changed at all.”

“Your Grace,” Ned Stark began in a clear and even voice that echoed across the courtyard. Rhaenys held onto Robb’s hand tighter in anticipation. “Winterfell is yours.”

There was another embrace between comrades and Robert moved down the line, hugging Lady Stark in a manner more fit between siblings than a king and the wife of one of his Lords. “Cat! It’s been too long!”

She replied in a tone too soft to be heard by Rhaenys but it was something that made the king laugh, a deep belly chuckle that could have been contagious in the right setting.

As he approached, Rhaenys released Robb’s hand as if it was on fire, not wanting to appear as a child clinging to her husband. The great shadow that he cast loomed and she kept her eyes firmly on the ground.

“You must be my namesake,” Robert said and out of the corner of her eye, she could see them shake hands. “And a good strong lad you are.” Robb muttered something quietly, but it was muffled by the sound of her heart beating so loudly that it drowned everything else out.

Then he was before her. Her gaze remained low, partly out of self-preservation, partly out of anger. If she looked up without preparing herself, she might’ve ended up trying to gouge his eyes out.

“The Targaryen girl,” he thundered and she dared risk a peek at his face. Unlike with the others, he was not smiling and beneath the excess that had so obviously taken a toll on his body, she could see a glimmer of the King who had rid the land of dragons.

Rhaenys bobbed her head in submission. “Your Grace,” she uttered, words stinging her lips.

He did not say another word and turned to Sansa, who smiled and curtseyed prettily at him.

It was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, one that had been there for weeks, ever since she had found out about the journey north. It was so silly -a child’s nightmare really- but a sliver of her feared that as soon as her saw her, Robert Baratheon would take his war hammer and slam it into her chest, just like he had done on the Trident to Rhaegar. It was nonsense, obviously just something conjured by a worried mind, but still, it had niggled in the back of her head.

Now she was free to watch the rest of the procession with considerably less stress.

The golden haired boy who could only have been the crown prince dismounted, surveying Winterfell with a disinterested smirk on his face. _He must take more after his mother than his father,_ Rhaenys thought to herself as his gaze fell upon Sansa who was next to her.

Behind him was a man with burns scarring his face and neck. He was tall, even bigger than Robert Baratheon and his hand rested on his sword like he was prepared for a bandit to leap from the turrets and attack them.

She looked once again at the gleaming white of the Kingsguard armor and was very suddenly taken aback. She was well aware that he had been pardoned, Doran had told her long ago, but still it shocked her to see Jaime Lannister in the cloak of a knight.

He had been her favorite of the Kingsguard as a little girl. Perhaps it was because he was closer to her age than all the others who were older and much grimmer. Her father spent time with the rest of the Kingsguard; in particular Lady Ashara’s brother, Ser Arthur and they were usually far too serious for her to rope into games.

Or maybe it was because he was much more fun, letting her chase him around, once even allowing her to try and hold his sword. While Aerys burned his subjects in the throne room, she would hide and when her mother was ill and her father was too busy with other problems to go looking for his wayward offspring, Ser Jaime would, offering words of comfort and guarding her in the nursery while she played with her toys.

The Lion of Lannister had been the kindest to her, but he had done nothing save for betray the King he had vowed to protect that dreadful night.

Yet he looked the same, perhaps a few more lines on his face than had been there when she had lived in the Red Keep but he was so easily recognizable. His emerald eyes glanced up and down the line of the Starks and eventually came to rest on her. She did her best not to meet his gaze, instead choosing to stare at the wheelhouse that could not fit through the gates of Winterfell.

Entering the courtyard, followed by two blonde children was the queen. Cersei Lannister’s beauty had not been overestimated, she truly was lovely looking, but the look of disdain that her son must have inherited from her stifled her good looks.

The two children behind her both looked around Winterfell with wide eyes. The boy must have been of age with Bran, perhaps a few years younger. He was a pudgy little thing with a cloud of blonde hair that was even longer than Arya’s obscuring his eyes.

The girl was the mirror image of her mother, but instead of looking miserable, seemed curious. She was beautiful without appearing haughty and smiled politely at all the servants around them.

The last lion also shared the look of the Lannisters, the same golden hair and one green eye, but the resemblance stopped there. They called him the Imp, said that he was a monster but that was a lie. He was simply a dwarf. Like the rest of his relatives, Tyrion Lannister carried an air of disinterest, like the entire progress with beneath him.

“Take me down to your crypts,” the king said loud enough that the entire court could hear. “I wish to pay my respects.”

Queen Cersei protested like she had done so a million times before and felt that it was her duty to do so. “We have been riding since dawn, the children are tired and cold. Surely the dead can wait.”

Robert Baratheon silenced her with a glare and Ser Jaime took her arm, leading her away with quiet words. She still remained affronted, but there was little that she could do about it.

Lord Stark led the king to the crypts and Lady Catelyn took the initiative to take the Queen to the guesthouse with her children.

The crowd began to disperse; the grooms led the horses to the stables, the squires took the luggage that had been carted north and half dragged, half carried it after Cersei Lannister.

Robb took her hand once more and pulled her closer. “Come, we needn’t remain here for any longer,” he whispered in her ear discretely while watching the rest of the household.

“Okay,” Rhaenys replied equally as quiet and followed as he led her up the stairs to his chambers. It was where both of them usually slept. While she did have her own rooms, she preferred his. They were more comfortable, more lived in.

When she slept in the rooms she had been given it felt like she was staying at a tavern. They were clean and tidy, truly very nice, but she felt like she was going to leave the next morning. She dressed and bathed in her own chambers and that was where the majority of her clothes were, but she did have a few dresses nestled away in his wardrobe for dire circumstances.

When Robb was sure that the door was barred and there were no little siblings listening from the outside like they were prone to doing, he spoke. “How are you feeling?” he asked as Rhaenys sat on the bed across from him.

“Less cautious,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s strange to see the King. He is not how I imagined him.”

“Nor I, not from the ways Father describes him,” Robb took a seat next to her and rested his hand on her thigh. “I imagined him to be a sort of giant like the ones that Old Nan told us, or maybe even a god.”

Rhaenys cocked her head and thought back to what she had been told of Robert Baratheon. Songs had been written about his victory, how the handsome lord had the ability to charm a women into bed with him with a few whispered words and soft caresses. She had been told all about how he was impossible to defeat, how he fought like the warrior himself had possessed him. It was a far cry from the fat, aging man that wore the crown.

She also thought of how he had crowed over the deaths of her family. “I see no babe,” Robert had said when presented with the body of her little brother, so bloodied and destroyed that he was unrecognizable. “Only dragonspawn.”

“All men wish they were gods,” she said uncrossing her arms to lean back on the bed. “Very few truly act like them.”

He let out a sharp laugh at her comment. “If only that were untrue,” Robb smiled then, moving his hand and cupping her cheek.

“I almost forgot that we will have to sit with him at the feast.” Based on his gut and red face, the king did not seem the sort of man to forgo wine and ale. “Hopefully he will be too drunk to say too much. Perhaps with a serving wench or two sat on his knee.”

“Aye and a leg of lamb in his hand,” he replied and Rhaenys giggled. “Is it treason to speak this way?” Robb japed; thumb stroking along the side of her face softly. “Do you think we could be executed for laughing at the expense of the king?”

“Maybe you would, I think I’m far too beloved to be executed.” She rolled over and raised an eyebrow.

“Please,” he scoffed and faced her. “You’ll be right beside me, Targaryen girl.” With the last words, he did a passable impression of Robert’s thundering voice, narrowing his eyes and scowling at her.

“Aye, but it seemed that he forgot something,” Rhaenys said, kissing him hard. She pulled away with a small smile playing on her lips like she knew something that he didn’t. “I’m a Stark now.”

A wolfish grin crossed his face. “Indeed,” he said, pressing kisses to her jaw, all the way down her throat. “And what a Stark you are.”

 

***

 

It did not take long for Rhaenys to dress for the feast. The two maidservants that occasionally helped her in the mornings assisted, braiding her hair away from her face and tightening the corset that encircled her waist. She hated corsets, they were unnecessary in Dorne, but for this feast, she was determined to fit in with the rest of the attendees.

The dress was plain in comparison to what Sansa and Lady Catelyn wore. It was a light grey satin with white lace details at the wrists and neckline. Perhaps not warm enough for regular northern activities, but for the feast, she felt that it would do nicely.

She sat at the vanity, twirling a strand of black hair around her fingers waiting for Robb to come and collect her.

Rhaenys blushed as she remembered what they had done just mere hours before, when the door to his chamber was locked and the rest of the castle was busy doing something else entirely.

The knock at the door made her jump and reflexively she pulled at her hair. Wincing, she rose from the chair and turned the handle to reveal Robb. He was dressed like a Lord’s son, in a clean leather doublet and a dark grey tunic. His typically unruly hair was neatly combed and in honesty, he could not have looked less like himself if he tried.

“Robb!” she said, opening the door wider to let him see all of her dress. “What do you think? Suitable for a Northern feast?”

“You look lovely Rhae,” he said, running a hand over her cheek and planting a quick kiss on her lips. “No other woman could compare.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, blushing slightly and held out her arm for him to take. “You don’t look to bad yourself.”

The descended down the stairs, Rhaenys lifting her skirts so that she didn’t trip over. The steps were narrow, which was not a problem when she wore her regular dresses, but in such a heavy, long garment as that she wore now it required extra vigilance.

Gathered outside the great hall was the rest of the Stark family. Lord Stark was deep in conversation with Lady Catelyn who was impeccably dressed in Tully blue. Sansa stood behind them, ignoring Arya who looked very put out in her dress.

Next to her, Bran looked serious as if he was worried about something. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked Robb.

“He’s escorting the Princess Myrcella into the hall and he’s worried that he might trip up,” he said.

With a wry smile, Rhaenys replied, “He can spar, he’s seen worse than a grown man ever would and he’s frightened about tripping. That certainly sounds like Bran.”

Rickon was the last Stark child and he didn’t seem to understand what was happening, instead choosing to unravel the cuff of his shirt. Leaning against the wall, examining his nails was Theon Greyjoy, the Stark ward. Rhaenys had never warmed to him; he leered at any woman who he came across. He was the son of Balon Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands. She could remember when word of that revolt arrived in Dorne and how shocked she was that they had tried to gain independence at all. It seemed a foolish thing to attempt, and Balon Greyjoy had lost all three of his sons as a consequence.

Rhaenys was about to say something else when a tall figure, all in black slipped though the doors. She frowned; unsure of who it was or what they wanted when Robb broke into a smile.

“Uncle Benjen!” cried Arya and she threw her arms around the man.

She had heard stories about the gallant younger brother of Lord Stark who joined the night’s watch at a tender age after Robert’s Rebellion. He certainly looked the part, with a strong resemblance to Lord Stark. There were a few errant grey strands in his dark hair and beard, but he looked young and fit.

He greeted his niece; reciprocating the tight hug she gave him. “Arya, you’ve certainly gotten bigger!”

Arya grinned happily and stepped away to let Lord Stark embrace his brother. “I feared that you would miss the feast entirely,” he said, releasing him.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Benjen laughed. “You’d have my head.”

The rest of the Stark children hugged him; even Lady Catelyn gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a welcome back.

She hung back, lacing her fingers together as she watched the happy reunion. It was nice to see such content faces, but it made her miss her own family more than before.

“Uncle, you haven’t met Rhaenys yet,” Robb said and grabbed her hand, pulling her close. “Rhaenys, this is my uncle Benjen, uncle Ben, this is Rhaenys, my wife.”

Nervously, she bobbed in a small curtsey. “It’s nice to meet you Lord Stark.”

“You needn’t call me that, Benjen will do just fine,” he said good-naturedly. Around his eyes were laughter lines and with each word, she relaxed. “I’m sorry to have missed your wedding.”

“It’s not a problem uncle, there were enough people that we ran out of room in the Sept,” Robb interjected.

“You married in a Sept?” Benjen said with a chuckle. “You’re a true southern boy now, aren’t you?”

“Rhae worships the Seven, that’s why,” Robb replied. “And besides, we went to the godswood afterwards. Do you really think so little of us?”

Instead of answering, he just laughed. “I’m sure this is quite different in contrast to Dorne, isn’t it my lady?”

“If you insist I call you Benjen, I must insist that you call me Rhaenys,” she said and his eyes widened in surprise, but a smile remained on his lips. “And it is very different. Not bad, but different.”

“Aye, to travel from sand to snow couldn’t have been easy.”

“No, not really-“ she was interrupted by the heavy sound of a door slamming and feet upon the stone floor. When Benjen had entered, he had been quiet as a snowflake hitting the ground, much like a ranger of the Night's Watch ought to be. But these were the noises of people who were aware that their presence could and should silence a room.

In came the royal family, Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister and then their children, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. They were all dressed far more lavishly than anyone else, but that was because in the North, they did not spend coin on useless things like the diamonds and sapphires that adorned their clothes. Behind them came Tyrion Lannister and Ser Jaime, both donning the Lannister lion upon their tunics.

Cersei in particular was stunning, dressed in red and gold silk embroidered with jewels that sparkled beneath the lights. Upon her head was a tiara, with emeralds glinting much like her eyes.

Benjen drifted away, and Rhaenys retreated back, as far away from them as possible.

Robert Baratheon looked like he had not stopped drinking since they arrived. He seemed jolly enough, ignoring Rhaenys completely, which was not unwelcome, instead choosing to speak with Lord Stark about the snow that had been steadily falling all evening.

“Seven hells, Ned! It’s summer, it’s not supposed to snow like this!” he said, loud enough that Rhaenys was sure that all those in the Great Hall could hear him.

“They are light. Winter is coming and with it the snows will get worse,” replied Lord Stark. “The Kingsroad will become impassable.”

Robert rolled his eyes and continued talking, but someone tapped her shoulder.

“Come on, we have to line up,” Robb said. According to him, if she had not been there, he would have escorted little Myrcella, but because she was and Robert would have gone mad if she had to touch him, the line up was changed.

The great doors opened and Lord Stark led the way with the Queen on his arm, followed by the King and Lady Stark.

Rickon shot a look of pure terror at Robb and then followed.

“Shall we?” Robb asked, turning slightly to give her a grin.

“Aye,” Rhaenys answered. “We shall.”

It was a long walk, mostly because every attendee turned and stared at them as they passed. While Robb kept an easy smile on his face, lapping up the attention that was so rarely directed by the southern court, Rhaenys did her best to shrink away from it all.

At Sunspear, she was Elia Martell’s daughter above all else. Here she was the Targaryen girl, spawn of Aerys the Mad and Rhaegar. Would she ever be anything else in their eyes?

Robb led her up to the dais and pulled the chair out for her like a true gentleman, letting her sit down first before taking a seat of his own. While they waited for the procession to finish, she drummed her fingers on her thigh until he reached over and quieted her.

“There is no need to fret Rhae, it’ll be over before you know it.”

It nearly was. The toasts were quick and thanks were given to the King and to Lord Stark and to the keep itself. Then the feast was been served.


	12. THE BASTARD AND THE DRAGONSPAWN

The decadence of the feast was overwhelming, wine and ale were flowing steadily into the cups of all seated in the hall. She could hear the booming laugh of Robert Baratheon over even the music that was playing. It was as if everything was in a tinge of crimson and gold.

She did not eat much, nibbling here and there on the food before her. There were oranges on a plate being passed around and she took one of them instead, peeling it quickly.

They were hard to come by in the North; she had not touched one in moons, since the wedding feast. The wine in her glass was Arbor Gold and she sipped it, not wanting to over indulge.

Apparently she was the only one thinking such a thing, for the king’s face was becoming redder with every passing minute. Robb also seemed to be following suit, calling for another goblet of summerwine. Even the Queen, whose pinched expression did not fit the tone of the feast, was steadily drinking.

There was a clash somewhere down below the dais and someone fled the hall to a chorus of raucous laughter. She craned her neck, but the person who ran was too far away to see. _It happens at every feast, someone drinks a little too much and makes a scene,_ she sighed and split the orange into slices, eating it quickly.

Robert Baratheon hauled a serving girl into his lap, pawing at her breasts and making her laugh loudly. It was degrading to watch, Rhaenys couldn’t imagine how the queen was feeling at such a show. She looked back to her plate, keeping her head down.

Unfortunately, the oranges ran out quickly and Rhaenys had to make do with the one that she had.

“Would you like mine?” Robb asked, waving a hand before her face. “Rhae?”

“Sorry? What?”

He tossed an orange up into the air and caught it, letting it balance on his fingers. “Would you like this?”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Come on Rhae,” he said raising his brows. “I know you like them, you told me so.”

“I’m fine,” she began, ready to launch into a longwinded speech about how utterly fine she really was and Robb rolled his eyes.

“For goodness sake,” he said, exasperated. “Stop being so bloody self-sacrificing and take the orange. Please?”

She took the orange.

“Thank you,” Rhaenys said quietly and she really meant it, but he had already turned away to listen to the story Robert Baratheon was telling about a recent hunting trip he had been on.

She peeled it and swallowed a slice, relishing the taste of home, playing in the water gardens with her cousins, the smell of flowers and rain upon the hot stones when. For just a moment, she could pretend that she was there, and not sat a few seats away from Robert Baratheon.

As she savored the tartness, out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenys could see Arya playing about with her cutlery with a devious look on her face. She scooped up what must have been grits with her spoon and pulled back, aiming at Sansa.

It was terribly difficult to hide the smile that threatened to cross her lips when Arya launched her missile. Robb let out a bark of laughter beside her and almost spilt the wine that was still in his hand.

Rhaenys could not hear Sansa cry out in shock, but her distressed face was enough for Lady Stark, who promptly asked Robb to take Arya to bed.

The two youngest Baratheon’s were also sent off too, along with Bran and Rickon. Suddenly, she was painfully aware of the lack of space between her and the king. Before, Robb had been there to block her view, but now with Lord Stark leaning back, jaw tense, there was three people between them.

Quickly and quietly, Rhaenys rose from the table and hurried out the door by the right of the dais. She resolved that she would go get some air and clear her head, which was already starting to spin from the wine.

It was freezing outside the keep and Rhaenys deeply regretting not fetching herself a cloak. She rubbed the sleeves of her dress, trying to keep the heat and stared up at the dark sky, trying to will tears not to fall.

The snow that earlier had been falling in soft flakes had stopped, but instead the wind bit at her cheeks. A loud whistled tune came from her left and she span to see Tyrion Lannister strolling away from Jon Snow like he had not a care in the world.

The door opened, revealing the bright merriment and then shut again, leaving both Rhaenys and Jon in the cold, in a stark contrast to the inside of the keep.

“My lady,” he asked, crossing over cautiously with his albino direwolf, Ghost in tow. “Are you alright?”

“I’m well, thank you for your concern,” she replied, hunching in on herself.

Jon wasn’t convinced. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but you don’t look well.”

She laughed bitterly and faced him. Her fingers were already freezing and the tips of her ears were surely turning red. “Whether I’m well or not doesn’t really matter does it?”

“Of course it does. You are Robb’s wife and you will be the lady of Winterfell,” he said and she felt very guilty. She had forgotten that the rest of Westeros didn’t treat their bastards as well as they did in Dorne, instead choosing to either abandon them or treat them as little more than servants.

“What about you? There is surely a reason that you are out here with only a direwolf for company. Are you alright?”

“Ghost is plenty company,” Jon replied, ruffling the direwolf’s fur. “And I had an interesting conversation with Tyrion Lannister.”

“I did see him going back to the feast,” she pondered, staring at the warmth reflected through the windows. “He seems an interesting character, what did he have to say?”

“Quite a lot and nothing at all. I think that he wants to come of as smarter than he actually is.”

“Don’t we all,” she shivered and Jon furrowed his brow.

“Hold on just a minute,” he said and went quickly towards the stables followed by Ghost, who trotted happily alongside him. Rhaenys waited until he returned with a dirty brown bundle. “Here,” he thrust it towards her and she took it.

“Thank you,” she said. It was a cloak, one that smelt of horse and straw, but a cloak nonetheless. Rhaenys was touched, she barely knew Jon, never having truly interacted with him save for a few smiles or greetings. She swept it over her shoulders and pulled up the hood, blocking out the wind.

“You didn’t answer me. The first time I mean,” Jon said. “Are you alright?”

Rhaenys shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t like being around the King. He makes me uncomfortable.”

He nodded solemnly and she was struck by the resemblance he shared with Lord Stark. It was not just the physical one, but the stance and seriousness that he seemed to always carry around.

“Every time I look at him, I feel like he is reliving his victory on the Trident again and again. And then I remember that while he did it all for the woman he loved and she died anyway and I think that I can understand because what Rhaegar did was wrong, more than wrong. It was horrific and maybe he should have died for it, but not the rest of them, nobody else should have lost their lives because of him. The King let them take away my mother and my brother, never giving my family justice. Never giving _me_ justice,” She pulled the cloak tighter around her body, offering herself comfort and Jon watched her, deep in thought.

“Do you hate her?” his voice was quiet, but his words spoke volumes.

“No.”

And that was that.

Rhaenys looked to the great hall once more, almost wistfully. Some of her wished to be back in the warmth once more, where the fires crackled and the wine poured freely and everyone forgot that whether they were speaking to a King or a sellsword.

“So why are you out here Jon?” she asked. “Do you find feasts dull?”

“Quite the opposite really. Don’t you find it interesting to hear all the stories that people have to tell?”

“I don’t normally hear them, at least not from where I sit. The most interesting thing that I heard tonight was a conversation between the queen and Sansa about her embroidery and dress making skills.”

“That sound fascinating,” his voice dripped with sarcasm and she smiled. Rhaenys could see herself becoming good friends with Jon Snow. “Truly riveting,” he continued, raising a brow and rubbing his clean-shaven jaw. “How does one compare such a conversation?”

She giggled softly and he smiled in triumph. “You certainly have a way with words.”

“Aye,” he said boastfully. “Tis what I am known for. Being jollier and talking more shit than the Kings own fool,” Jon paused. “Sorry, that was crude.”

“I am used to crudeness. Have you met my cousins?” Rhaenys replied, eyebrows practically up to her hairline. “Have you met Robb?”

“Have you met Theon Greyjoy?” Jon asked. “He’s far worse, always talking about his whores and salt wives and the gods know what else.”

“I do my best to avoid him to be perfectly honest. He’s very arrogant.”

“That he is,” he huffed. “And he always has been, ever since he arrived in Winterfell. Sometimes I wonder why Robb puts up with him.”

“He’s very forgiving, is he not?”

He just smiled. “A bit too much if you ask me.” As he spoke, he reached down and giving Ghost a pat on the head.

Jon Snow seemed to be the kind of person that, despite his seriousness, was a good person to talk to. Bastards had to grow up quickly in Westeros and she could not have related more if she tried.

“I ought to return,” Rhaenys said. “Or else they’ll begin to celebrate my premature death,” she shed the cloak and turned, holding it in her hands. “Where would you like me to put this?”

“I’ll worry about it, you go back in, warm up,” Jon replied as she handed it to him. “I’m sure dragons aren’t meant for the cold of the North.”

“To be perfectly honest, who is?” she said with a smile and Jon reciprocated in kind.

Rhaenys entered the hall again, hiding at the back and watching the celebrations. Everyone was drunker than before and to her shock, a serving maid sat on the knee of Robert Baratheon as he pawed at her arse and breasts.

Cersei Lannister did not seem fazed as if it had happened a million times before. She swallowed her wine and the sour look that had been on her face since their arrival became just a little more pinched,

Unlike the rest of the household, Lord Stark did not seem to be enjoying himself. His glass looked as full as it had been when she had slipped from her chair in the first place.

As if a she had suddenly been drenched in water, Rhaenys felt very heavy. Her limbs ached and her eyes wanted to fall shut. _I don’t need to stay, nobody will fret if I just go to bed,_ she thought to herself. _Surely nobody would notice if I just slipped out._

She shook the thought from her head as easily as a dog would shake water off. She had no want to travel to the dais again and resolved to walk around and enter the same way that she left.

There was nobody in the corridor and the torches that lit her way were few and far between. Rhaenys hurried along quickly, once again fearing that she would trip and find herself sprawling across the ground.

It was then that she went to turn a corner and a tall figure came out of nowhere blocking her path and making her blood run cold.

“Lady Stark,” said Jaime Lannister, looking to all the gods as righteous and young as he had seven and ten years ago. His golden hair still shone and embellished on his tunic was roaring lion.

“Ser Jaime,” she acknowledged, looking beyond him, hoping desperately that he would yield and move out of her path.

“Have you seen my brother?” he asked and Rhaenys had the urge to turn around and walk the other direction. “He seems to have vanished. I’m sure you know who I’m speaking of.”

“According to Jon he was in the yard earlier, but then he returned to the Great Hall.”

“Apparently not,” Jaime replied, a smirk on his face that she had the overwhelming urge to slap off. “As he is not at the feast.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Rhaenys said and went to brush past him, as he would not move.

“You’ve grown up,” he said and she froze in place. “You take far more after your mother than your father, it’s true, but there are hints of him. The way you stand, your jaw, they are all Rhaegar.”

“How could I know, I was only a child when he was killed. My mother could have told me but alas, she was slain too while you sat upon the Iron Throne.” It was a cutting mark, one meant to sting him as well as her.

He did not reply, instead moving out of the way to let her past. The arrogant expression remained on his face, but it looked considerably less smug than earlier. If she had not known better, she might have said it was almost tragic.

 

***

 

Rhaenys was lying in bed when the knock came at the door.

Actually to say it was a knock was an understatement, it was more of a thump at the door like the person outside had underestimated their strength.

She had not stayed at the feast much longer, only remaining long enough to drink a small glass of summerwine. She had bid goodnight to Lady Catelyn, Lord Stark and even caught the eye of Jon Snow at the back of the hall.

Robb had returned after taking Arya to bed, slightly drunker than before and she suspected that Theon Greyjoy had cornered him with a flagon while he was on his way to the hall. He had disappeared for a suspiciously long time.

Lightly, Rhaenys tapped him on the arm. “Robb,” she said quiet enough that only he could hear. “I’m going to go back to my chambers now. I will see you in the morning.”

He nodded, but did not answer, instead choosing to drink some more ale. He had swapped over halfway through the night, much to Rhaenys’ concern. She had always found ale was slightly more intoxicating than wine.

When she had reached her chambers, she dismissed the maidservants, instead choosing to undress on her own. Being careful, she pulled the pins from her hair, letting midnight locks fall to her waist.

Rhaenys slipped from the dress and loosened the corset from around her waist, folding them and laying them on the chair to worry about in the morning.

As much as she disliked sleeping in her own chambers, she could not imagine Robb being anything other than blackout drunk based off how much he had drunken when she was still there and she had never been a fan of the smell of ale. It would be easier to remain in her own bed for the night and discuss it in the morning when he was not so, easily swayed.

When she was clad simply in her shift and her hair was neatly braided, Rhaenys pulled the furs over herself and lay back, trying to block out the noise. Her windows were closed and the door was locked to prevent any wayward guest from finding their way in.

She did not know how long she had been asleep when the knock awoke her. She shot up in bed, heart pounding frantically. Rhaenys did not know what she had been dreaming, she couldn’t remember, but it was enough that the knock had frightened her.

Another light thump came on the door and she frowned, rising and throwing back the furs. There weren’t many people who knew where her chambers were, mostly just the Starks and the more trustworthy members of the household.

Very slowly, she padded over to the door; aware that her shift was very thin, but she had left her robe in Robb’s bedchamber and there was little she could do about it now.

Cautiously, she turned the handle and opened it, peeking out.

It was Robb, looking a little worse for wear. His doublet was haphazard and the tunic had one sleeve rolled up to the elbow and the other was bunched at his wrist. His hair that had been so neat mere hours earlier was mussed up like he had been dragged backwards through a hedge. When she opened the door, he pitched forwards like it was the only thing keeping him upright and Rhaenys had to throw it wide to help him stay on his feet.

“You weren’t in bed,” he muttered, looking up at her through bright eyes. “Why weren’t you in bed?”

“You’re drunk.”

Robb looked almost proud of himself, pushing back so he could stand up on his own. “No, I’m no’ drunk.” He then wobbled to right and she had throw out her arms to catch him before he fell hard onto the ground.

She raised an eyebrow even though she knew he couldn’t see her. Rhaenys had her face pressed to his shoulder and arms wrapped tightly around his ribcage to keep upright. “You are very drunk.”

With a lowered voice, the kind used for secrets and whispered words of affection, he nodded and said conspiringly, “I am very drunk.”

“Wonderful,” Rhaenys said and hauled him over to the bed. “Sit.”

He sat, but almost immediately began to list to the side.

She poured a cup of water and gave it to him to drink. “Go on, drink it all or you’ll have a headache in the morning.”

“I won’t,” he muttered petulantly, but he still drank it all. She waited patiently for him to finish the drink.

“Yes you will,” Rhaenys replied and took the cup and left it on the side, where the pitcher sat. She knelt and unbuttoned his doublet, slipping it over his shoulders. “Arms up.”

He obliged and she pulled the tunic up and over his head, leaving him bare from the chest up. “S’cold,” he slurred. “Make me warm.”

She couldn’t be bothered to help him out of his breeches, so instead gave him a light push. “There, warm yourself up.” Robb fell back onto the bed, but still stared back at her with puppy dog eyes. He looked like Rickon when he was denied something that he desperately wanted.

“Come to bed Rhae,” he said and lifted his hand feebly. “Come to bed with me.”

With a soft smile she climbed in next to him, dragging the furs back over them both. “Go to sleep Robb, you’ll need it.”

“Okay,” he murmured, already drowsy. “Stay with me. Please.”

She stroked his hair and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that even though this appears to be going pretty slow and that nothing really exciting has happened, I have the next ten chapters plotted out and things get exciting very quickly. That being said, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. A few of you have asked about Jon and Rhaenys interactions so I hope that I delivered!


	13. DECLARATIONS

Robb awoke with a dry mouth and a pounding headache that was plenty enough to disorient him even before his eyes opened.

Cautiously, he opened one eye to see a room very unfamiliar to his own. A dress lain out on the chair that faced the window, a vanity across from the bed and a woman’s dark cloak hanging off the wardrobe. An empty water pitcher sat abandoned on the side table, along with two cups, one tilted on its side like it had fallen over. Upon the vanity was a jewelry box and a pendant with the Martell sun hung half out.

He was in Rhaenys’ chambers, he could remember seeing her open the door dressed in just a shift. He could also remember her at the feast, quieter than their wedding. But where was she now?

In a minor state of panic he dragged himself from the bed and dressed in his clothes that they kept in the bedroom. Moving made his head ache even more than it had before.

Clutching his temple, Robb told himself that he would not touch another drop of ale for at least as long as the King remained in Winterfell. He didn’t even know why had drunk so much, but it kept appearing in his cup, so he just continued. Not since that disastrous incident with the mead had he ever been so inhibited.

His father would be disappointed and Rhae, what would she have been thinking. _I married a boy who was in his cups more than Robert Baratheon?_ She was probably horrified by it all, humiliating himself before the King and Queen and their smug son.

It was a stupid thing to have done, the actions of a boy. But he was a man grown now and with his father leaving for King’s Landing soon, he would be the acting Lord of Winterfell and it could not happen again. He would apologize to his father and mother and to Rhaenys for being such a fool.

He might even apologize to the King and Queen, but as he thought it, he decided not to. Not after the display of Robert Baratheon. If Robb was ashamed of his behavior, the king should have been utterly humiliated, but obviously was not. It couldn’t have been a rare occurrence as even his son seemed desensitized by it all.

Prince Joffrey made Robb unreasonably angry to think about. The way he looked at Winterfell, the way he looked at _Sansa_ was so smarmy. The boy prince was as spoiled as one could possibly be, used to being handed everything with his title pinned to it.

The younger two were not as bad, little Myrcella had her mother’s looks but seemed polite enough, always smiling and even Arya contested that she was kind. Tommen, the youngest was certainly babies. He was a little younger than Bran, but still was not allowed to ride a pony. Even Rickon had been atop of one and Father had led him around the yard a few times as he giggled happily.

Moving as quickly as he could without throwing himself to the side and vomiting up what little remained in his belly, Robb made his way down to the Great Hall, expecting her to be there, breaking her fast, but it was nearly entirely empty, the only people there were the servants who still cleaned up the mess that had been made the night before.

 _Where could she have vanished?_ Robb thought, though thinking made his head hurt even more. _The sept? Or perhaps even the kennels to see Grey Wind._ He had yet to give her the horse he had promised, and resolved to do it as soon as possible.

It would be easier if he could see the yard, so Robb made his way to the covered bridge and scanned the courtyard, looking for her.

And there she was, looking radiant.

She was talking to Jon, who he had never seen her even interact with at all. He had always lingered in the background. At the wedding, at any of the meals, Jon had stayed away, spending time with his direwolf or sulking in the back of the hall. But suddenly, over one feast they were speaking and as he watched, she threw her head back and laughed.

Jon hid a smile too, and she turned, giving him a wave and his direwolf a pat on the head. Robb hurried down from the covered bridge to intercept her. She was facing away from him, heading towards the great keep and Robb’s head still hurt too much for him to chase after her.

“Rhae!” he called out and she span, eyes wide in surprise and then she beamed at him.

“Robb! I thought that you would stay in bed for a bit longer,” she giggled good-naturedly and he flushed slightly. He had thought she would be more irritated about the night before. “If I were you, I would have stayed in bed until noon at least, you could barely sit up straight, let alone walk anywhere. The state that you were in…” she trailed off with a smirk.

“I’m sorry, for last night,” he said. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much. It was unfair for me to have left you alone and with the king being so-”

She cut him off, catching his own hand with her own. “I’ll let you have this one, but only this once. The next time you come to my bed that drunk I’ll send you out to sleep with the wolves.” Her tone was light, but he could sense the seriousness behind it. And she was perfectly entitled to it. He was the son of a lord, not a common sellsword or brewer. He had behaved appallingly and was rightly ashamed of it all.

“Still,” he said, guilt in his throat. “I left you, and with all of the Lannisters about. I know how you feel about them and it was wrong of me. I should have been there, instead of a drunken mess.”

Rhaenys shook her head. “It was one feast and I trust that you will never do it again,” she squeezed his hand tightly. “I’m fine, the Lannisters stayed well away from me. Now, will you please stop worrying about it all?”

“Of course,” he replied, relief coloring his features. His chest was still tight, but her forgiveness lifted a weight from his shoulders. “Where is it you’re going?”

She shrugged and laced her arm with his. “I’m not sure. The kennels? I have yet to see Grey Wind and the poor boy hasn’t had a decent run in ages.” With the Baratheon’s at Winterfell, the wolves were not allowed out much, as Myrcella and Tommen were frightened of them.

“I’ll join you, but not for long. I was planning to talk with Hullen later and Bran was badgering me yesterday to watch his sparring match.”

“That is perfectly alright with me,” she said and they collected Grey Wind from the kennels, letting him run to the godswood ahead of them.

He was a fine wolf, growing quickly each day. He was now up to Robb’s knees, and when he jumped up, his front paws reached Rhaenys’ shoulders, which irritated her to no end. The howling was not doing much to help his headache, but it was worth it to see them both so happy.

“Out of genuine curiosity, what were you talking to Jon about?” Robb asked. They never interacted and he really wanted to know what had sparked it.

“He was apologizing for his behavior at the feast,” she replied. “He seems to think that he was rude, I assured him that he was no such thing and that I had a lovely time speaking with him.”

Robb cocked his head. “What did you speak about?”

“This and that,” she retorted vaguely. “There was some mention of you and Theon Greyjoy.”

“Nothing bad I hope,” Robb replied.

“Oh not at all,” she said as the stopped before the heart tree that Grey Wind sniffed around. His golden eyes seemed to see everything and he disappeared into the trees again, only a blur was seen.

“It’s strange to think how much he has grown in such a short time,” she said, leaning against him. “It seems like yesterday that you brought him home.”

He stopped, recounting her words. “Home?” Robb asked in wonder. “You called Winterfell home.”

Rhaenys smiled and it was like the sun had suddenly shone upon them in the dark of the godswood. “Yes,” she said, biting her lip. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

He could not keep the grin off his face, and kissed her before the weirwood heart tree, just like they should have done the day they wed.

“Everyday I thank the gods that I married you,” she said, holding tighter onto his arm. “You weren’t the only option you know.”

“Aye, I know, my father told me. Who was the other they wanted to send you off to?”

“Robert Arryn.”

“Jon Arryn’s boy?” She could have wed Aunt Lysa’s son, his cousin? He couldn’t have been much older than Bran or Rickon.

“Aye, and I would have been miserable, just like Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. He pines for another, she is well aware of it and you can see it in his eyes and in hers that they hate each other.”

“What it must be to be married to someone you despise,” Robb said thoughtfully, turning to her. “Even a blind man could see that they cannot stand one another and we’ve only witnessed them a day.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said and Robb knew that now was the time. He took both of her hands and looked her deeply in the eyes, mentally preparing himself to say the next words.

“I love you,” he said, pulling her close. Her hands were clasped behind the back of his head and she stared up at him, dark brown eyes meeting his own. “You don’t have to say it back, but I had to tell you. I love you.”

She kissed him, softly, chastely and buried her face into his chest. “I love you,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting to say it.”

“As have I,” Robb replied and on a whim, he scooped her into his arms and twirled her in a circle, listening to the beautiful sound of her laugh, of her happiness. It was not something that he imagined would come so quickly and hit so hard.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Rhaenys said, caressing his face. “I never thought that I would see the day, but gods, I love you.”

They clung to each other in the godswood, basking in each other’s adoration for one another and in the joy of the moment; Robb’s head didn’t hurt at all.

 

***

 

“The prince is horrid,” Bran declared when he had stormed into the stables. “He was so rude to Rodrik and Jory and Robb!”

“Bran!” Rhaenys hissed, head whipping about to see if there were any members of the King’s retinue about. It was unlikely, with the king in the Great Hall, drinking like the world was about to end and it was his last night alive. Lord Stark and Robb had remained, but she had excused herself quickly to go visit her new mare. “You mustn’t say such things. Someone might hear you.”

“The only ones here are you and Hodor and you hate the King and the prince.”

“Bran, please,” she whispered harshly, still peeking around in case a Lannister or Baratheon guard was hidden behind the stalls. “Lower your voice.”

He huffed with his arms crossed and a dejected look on his face, but did as she asked. “He is though. Did you see him with Rodrik, refusing to fight unless it was live steel. Sansa loves him, she says that they will get married and she will be queen, but that means that Joffrey will be king and I hate him. I don’t want him to be king.

“Well there is nothing to be done about it,” she said, continuing to brush out the mare’s coat. “Why have you come in here?”

“Nobody else listens to me. I told Robb and he said that I should hush because the king might hear. Sansa likes Joffrey and Arya is messing around with Jon somewhere and told me to go away. Rickon is a baby and doesn’t even know how to hold a sword properly,” Bran paused and whispered even lower like he was scared. “Even Tommen is better than he is.”

“So you decided to come in here?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Yes,” Bran said and climbed up so he was sat on the edge of the stall, kicking his legs so that the entire piece of wood trembled.

“Are you going to stay?”

“Yes.”

“If you insist on staying, would you like to help me name my horse?”

“I haven’t even named my direwolf. Nothing sounds right.”

She reached over and ruffled his hair. “Well then you know plenty of names, and we can find one that fits this lass.”

Robb had given her the horse when they had returned from the godswood. Hullen had given her the pick of all the unclaimed steeds, but her eye had been drawn to the young mare in the corner. She was jet black, with a dark mane that matched Rhaenys’ own hair.

“You don’t want that one, my lady. She’s uncooperative,” Hullen said roughly.

“Uncooperative?” The horse tossed her mane and pawed the ground with a hoof.

“I tried to use her for breeding, but she would bolt every time,” he explained, moving towards another horse, one that looked like it might drop down dead at the slightest increase in pace. “This one will be far more pliant.”

Rhaenys looked at Robb pleadingly. She knew this was the one she was meant to have, not a pliant mare but one with the same fire as she and he crumbled. “Are you sure?”

“In Dorne I had a sandsteed and she was a nightmare, but I loved her just the same.”

Hullen had sighed, but led her to the paddock. At first the mare was skittish, choosing shy away from them, but Rhaenys had fetched some hay and fed it to her with patience.

Robb had left to help with the sparring and Hullen had plenty of other duties, so Rhaenys had decided to use the peace and quiet to work with the horse.

She had left her alone for a bit, fetching some bread from the Great Hall and sitting for a little bit, but as quickly left as soon as was acceptable.

“Come here,” Rhaenys said, and he jumped down from his perch, landing like a cat. She took Bran’s hand and placed on the horse’s neck, letting him stroke her. “You see, she’s a bit temperamental, but that’s because everyone wants her to do things. She has to choose what she wants to do.”

The horse whinnied and Bran retracting his hand back in fear. “Father says that I will ride a proper horse when we go to King’s Landing for the entire journey. I’ve only ever ridden one around the yard.”

“Well there is still plenty of time to practice,” she replied. “I was the same in Dorne, but our sandsteeds are smaller and faster than horses in the north. It took me a while to become comfortable riding, but when I was, I would ride for hours all around Sunspear.”

“Do they have knights in Dorne?”

“Oh yes. They have lots. My great uncle Lewyn was in the Kingsguard and my uncle has many knights patrolling Sunspear and the water gardens.”

Bran looked delighted. “I’m going to be a knight one day and maybe the next time you visit Dorne you can take me too and I can see what its like,” he grinned from ear to ear. “If Sansa is going to be queen, she’ll visit all around the Seven Kingdoms and I’ll go with her.”

“And what a knight you’ll be,” Rhaenys said. “So gallant in your armor, all the maidens in will be desperate to give you a favor when you joust in a tourney.”

“My aunt Lyanna was crowned at a tourney once,” Bran said and Rhaenys felt her blood run cold. “She was called the queen of love and beauty. Father never talks about it, but Old Nan told me that it was a crown of winter roses. I think that you’d make a good queen.”

“Do you?” Rhaenys murmured, trying her hardest to remain impartial.

“You could have been queen,” Bran said thoughtfully. “You were a princess and I think that you would’ve made a good queen.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “But it was not to be. Now I am married to Robb and I’m perfectly happy just being a lady.”

“But ladies are boring,” Bran bemoaned her and she whirled still holding the brush aloft.

“Arya is a lady, is she boring?” Rhaenys said.

“Well, no,” he replied, probably thinking about her antics at the feast.

“Sansa is a lady, is she boring?” As soon as she said it, she realized that Bran probably found his eldest sister a little less interesting than the other one.

“Sometimes,” he said mischievously.

“Fine,” she said. “Sansa is sometimes boring, but I am also a lady, am I boring? Is your lady mother boring?”

“No.”

“Then why are ladies boring?” it was a serious question, and required a relatively serious answer.

“Because all they do is talk about embroidery and tea parties and gossip about all sorts.”

Rhaenys could not name one northerner that did that, save for perhaps Sansa. “So you mean southern ladies are boring?”

“I think so,” he said as if he was starting to get a bit confused with the conversation.

“Well,” she said with a half smile. “That is terribly unfortunate, as that’s who you’ll be spending time with in court.”

“No I won’t,” Bran said hotly. “I’ll be squiring for a knight and that is definitely not boring. Father says that I might be allowed to.”

Rhaenys laughed loudly. “Maybe the knight will send you to guard Septa Mordane’s embroidery lessons and all you’ll have to do is listen and watch as ladies sew.”

Bran wrinkled his nose and tilted his head slightly. “Maybe I don’t want to be a knight then.”

“I was just jesting Bran,” she said, kneeling so they were looking each other in the eye. “You mustn’t let anyone tell you that you cannot be something Bran. If you want to be a knight, be a knight. Even people like Joffrey Baratheon can’t tell you not to dream.”

He nodded and the smile was beginning to return.

“Now,” she announced rising and returning to the mare who remained in her paddock. “Are you going to help me name this poor horse or not?”


	14. THE SHOCK OF THE FALL

It was the day before the journey back to King’s Landing and Rhaenys was extremely relieved. Perhaps it was wrong of her to be so happy about it, as Lord Stark, Sansa, Arya and Bran would be leaving too, but Winterfell would finally be cleared of lions and stags.

She had done her best to avoid them all, offering the queen a cursory bow and smile and doing the same to the king. As for Ser Jaime and his brother Tyrion, she would skirt to the side whenever either of them emerged from the halls of Winterfell.

Very soon, it would be emptied out. Even Jon Snow was leaving. He had told her a few days after their initial conversation that he was thinking about joining the Night’s Watch and as much as she disliked the idea, it did seem like the most reasonable thing to do.

It did not take a clever mind to see the disdain that Lady Catelyn held for Jon and Rhaenys could understand it. Had she not grown up in Dorne she may have felt the same about him. It couldn’t have been easy to have a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity in her home. If she had been put in the same position, Rhaenys could not guarantee that she wouldn’t do the same.

But he was leaving soon enough, after everyone departed for King’s Landing, but before that, King Robert had insisted on a hunt through the wolfswood, bringing along his son and the two Kingsguard knights that accompanied him everywhere.

Robb had left for the hunt early in the morning. He had woken her briefly, whispering quietly in her ear something that she had been too drowsy to hear properly, kissing her lightly on the temple and vanishing.

Theon Greyjoy went too, with Lord Stark, Benjen, Jory and Rodrik Cassel and all of the hunters. Even Tyrion Lannister decided to join them with a flask of wine upon his hip.

While they were all gone and the keep was quieter than it had been in a long time, she sat with Lady Catelyn, learning about the ledgers and sums. She had never been any good at numbers and it drove Doran mad. Oberyn would always laugh and say that unlike her uncle, who was content to sit in his chair with his head firmly in the ledgers and send his men out to deal with any problems, she was far more suited to action.

But Rhaenys was desperate to be a somewhat acceptable Lady of Winterfell, with the help of Lady Catelyn of course.

“When Ned is gone, Robb will be acting Lord of Winterfell. It will not be easy,” she said, organizing the papers with a stern look upon her face. “I will help as best I can, but I also must care for Rickon. The majority of burden will fall on both of you. Especially with winter coming,” she added ominously.

Rhaenys swallowed hard. She had helped with inventory before, but there had always been someone to supervise, to tell her what she was doing wrong. To do it on her own would be strange, but she would do what was required of her.

They were secluded in the solar until noon, when Catelyn left to tend to Rickon, leaving Rhaenys behind to finish the household inventory. They were coming to the end of a long summer and while she had never been North during the winter, Old Nan and Robb had both told her what it was like the last time.

“Father once took me to Deepwood Motte for a few nights and on the way there, there was a family frozen solid by the side of the path. They must have been caught in a storm, because they were long dead,” he had said. “I don’t know what possessed them to be out in such weather, but surely it was nothing good.”

Old Nan was even more succinct, sitting in her chair by the fire, tapped her gnarled fingers on the wood. “Mothers would smother their babes to give them a quick, painless death rather than watch them waste away with no food. Even in such a keep as this, it was difficult and when the fevers and chill set in, there was very little that could be done except pray. Pray for a quick death.”

She had been shocked. In Dorne everything was in abundance. Despite the landscape being poor for growth, it was easier for crops to flourish there rather than in the snowy North.

“It was a long winter last time,” Old Nan had wheezed, her face truly showing all the winters that she had lived through. “The year of false spring was the only reprieve, but it did not last.” Rhaenys had been a babe at the time, and could not remember it, but she knew about it. About how the weather had grown warmer and there were celebrations for weeks, only to be quickly cancelled when the crops began to fail once more.

It was the year of Harrenhall. That she knew for certain.

As Rhaenys flipped through the ledgers that were filled with lines of neat writing, declaring the amount of grain to be given to the bakers, to Gage in the kitchens and to the smallfolk in Wintertown, she couldn’t imagine spending her days doing the same.

The glass gardens offered a bit of reprieve, but they could only do so much. There simply wasn’t enough harvest to go around. Especially when Wintertown began to fill up.

She had not expected for Lord Stark to become the hand of the king in the first place and for him to travel south. What she had hoped originally was that she and Robb would be eased into the roles of Lord and Lady and she supposed halfheartedly that they were, but not as slowly as she’d like.

Her head began to hurt with all of the ‘what ifs’ and possibilities so Rhaenys decided to go for a walk in the godswood to clear it. Unlike in Dorne, were the heat and relentless sun beating upon the people made it hard to think, the crisp wind of the North was very much welcomed.

There was a thin layer of fallen leaves upon the ground that crunched with each step. It had snowed a little bit, small flurries that whirled around the keep, but nothing had settled ever since the royal family had arrived.

Rhaenys would miss Sansa, Arya, Bran and even Lord Stark, but she was desperate for Robert Baratheon and his family to leave. Cersei Lannister made her terribly uncomfortable, watching her with thinly concealed disdain.

 _My mother would have made a better queen,_ she had thought to herself on more than one occasion. Perhaps it was wrong to even imagine her mother as queen, but it was true. _Cersei languishes in silks and jewels, allowing her son to turn his nose up at his future kingdom. My mother would have encouraged learning about it all. She knew that power comes with responsibility._

Sansa was desperately excited to go south, she had asked Rhaenys about the Red Keep, what it was like and it had taken all of her restraint not to bite back at her. She wondered if they had cleaned her mother and brother’s blood from the foot of the Iron Throne?

Bran also peppered her with questions, musing about the journey and what it would be like in King’s Landing. Rhaenys had imagined that it would be the same as Winterfell, just more congested and filthy with brothels on every corner. Stannis Baratheon had once attempted to outlaw whorehouses, but Robert had laughed him out of the throne room.

Both of them were so excited, believing that the Red Keep with be the start of something new and brilliant.

Arya was considerably less enthused.

“I want to see all of Westeros, but I don’t want to go to King’s Landing. Jon said that they are probably trying to find someone for me to marry, but I don’t want to marry some trumped up southern lord’s son,” Arya had scowled with her arms crossed defiantly. “And I definitely don’t want to spend time anymore time with Joffrey on the journey.”

“I was betrothed to Robb when I was three and ten,” Rhaenys had said, closing the book about Nymeria that she was reading. “The same age as you are now.”

“Yes but you and Robb actually like each other,” Arya replied.

“Not really at first,” she retorted, thinking of all the tantrums and tears that had been shed at the revelation. “But we got to know each other, and if you do end with a betrothal, I’m sure it won’t be until you are older like Sansa.”

Arya scoffed. “But Sansa wants to marry. I don’t. I want to do something _interesting_.”

Rhaenys did not have a good reply to that, but before she could say something, Arya ducked behind a curtain because Septa Mordane was looking for her to do some needlework with Sansa and princess Myrcella.

She couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown at the memory. Arya was of a singular mind, much like her uncle Oberyn and all of her bastard cousins. Marriage was for ladies, and both they and her good sister thought of themselves as anything but.

In the dark of the godswood, she could barely see the red tears that the heart tree cried. The morose face gave her a strange feeling, like it was alive and watching her, judging her.

It was a strange sensation and Rhaenys had the sudden urge to drop down to her knees and pray, not to the seven like she was so accustomed, but instead to the old gods themselves.

She did not hold to them, but she could find herself believing in them, in gods that were in every river, tree and whisper of wind across the barren north. _The old gods do not venture below the neck, just like the seven rarely pass either._

Robb believed in them, Jon even more so. Arya would pray in the godswood and even Sansa, who despite her obvious preferences also deigned to stand before the weirwood tree in submission.

Rhaenys sat down on the ground of the godswood, staring up into the face. She did not know how to pray to the old gods, but part of her wanted to learn.

Before she could truly begin, a howl cut through the air like a sword. Her head shot up, confused. Then came the scream.

 

***

 

When Robb and his father rode through the Hunters gate behind the King and his knights, they knew straight away something was wrong. Arya was stood in the yard, teary eyed and wringing her hands anxiously.

As soon as they stilled their horses, she rushed to them, tripping on her cloak in her haste to reach them. Father dismounted immediately and Robb followed, handing his horse off to one of the grooms milling around, and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but she spoke instead.

“It’s Bran,” Arya whispered. Her voice cracked. “He fell.”

The first thing he felt was confusion. _Bran never falls._ One glance at his father showed the same emotions; disorientation, shock and then pure fear.

Biting her lip, she turned and raced into the Great Keep. For a few moments, Robb did not move. His limbs did not work and he felt that if he were to take a single step, he would collapse face first onto the ground. His father did not face any similar issues and instead followed Arya.

He moved through the keep in a dream state. He was light headed, stumbling over flat surfaces and grabbing onto the little crevices in the granite wall to steady himself.

Outside of Bran’s room sat Sansa, staring mutely at the wall, eyes reddened and face pallid. Rhaenys was next to her with Rickon in her arms. On his face were dried tear tracks and he was clinging to her neck. She was stroking his hair softly with one hand and held onto Sansa’s limp hand. Jon was across from them, on the floor with his head held in his hands. Arya slumped down beside him silent and frozen.

“What happened?” Robb asked, directed to nobody. Jon looked up, grey eyes bloodshot. None of them said anything. “What happened?”

It was Sansa who spoke. Her voice was hoarse from misuse. “He was climbing again. It must have been a been a loose brick on the Broken Tower that he put too much weight on. He fell.”

“How bad is it?” If it were just a few stories, perhaps a knock on the head or a broken arm, he would be fine. Embarrassed and annoyed, but fine. But their expressions on their faces were not synonymous of a minor injury and with each passing second, he was dreading the answer.

“His legs were shattered, ” Sansa let out a small whimper, tears slipping down her cheeks and onto her lap. She finally looked at him, twisting her fingers in the gown. “Maester Luwin said that he’ll never walk again if he even wakes up.”

“If?” Robb choked out. His heart thrummed in his chest. He could not wait any longer and staggered into Bran’s chambers.

In the room, his mother and father knelt by the bed. His mother was wailing, a broken sound that hurt his soul to hear. The sobs were muffled slightly when his father pressed her against his chest; hand protectively around her head as if to shield her from the sight.

And Bran, he was so small, surrounded by furs to try and keep him warm. He face was pale and dark circle surrounded closed eyes. Robb felt like a boy of seven again when his little brother was first born, asleep in his crib while Sansa and Arya peered over the top. He had sworn then that he would take care of him just like his own father had promised to do the same with his own younger siblings, yet here he lay, still as death.

 _I’ve failed_ , Robb thought with a strange sense of detachment. _I’ve failed my brother._

Father was stricken, looking more helpless than he’d ever seen. “What can be done?” he asked.

Maester Luwin was feeling his forehead with the back of his wrinkly hand. “Very little, my lord. The fall broke the bones in his legs and parts of his back. There is no way to fix it.”

“Will he die?” Robb gasped, and his mother sobbed even harder. Her breathing was rapid, short breaths that hurt his own lungs.

“I do not know,” the old maester replied, lifting Bran’s eyelids to see what lay beneath.

Robb felt sick. He somehow made his way out of the chambers, running into Jon who held him upright. “How did this happen?”

“I, I don’t know,” his hand was trembling uncontrollably. “His wolf howled and then we saw him there.”

With a deep shuddering breath, he pushed his emotions down, trying in vain to smother them. It was not easy when all he wanted to do was sit with his brother and cry. But while mother and father stayed with Bran, he would be the acting lord and the acting lord needed to care for the rest of his family.

Robb stood tall, wiping his eyes furiously. He was trying to reassure his siblings. Sobbing and wailing would not help his brother, nor would it do his parents any good to worry about their other children. He was the oldest and that meant that it was his responsibility.

He scooped Rickon from Rhaenys’ arms and she slouched in relief. He did not know how long his brother had been clinging to her, but it must have been quite a long time.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked her quietly, letting Rickon rest his little head on his shoulder.

Rhaenys shook her head. “We’ve all been here since it happened.” That meant his youngest brother, who was normally abed by this hour or close to it, had not had something to eat since noon.

“Bring the girls down to the kitchen. It will do Bran no good for us all to wait outside.” It sounded harsh to speak out loud, but both Rhaenys and Jon understood. His brother began to move towards the stairs, flattening himself against the wall when a maid servant came running with fresh linens.

Rolling her neck, Rhaenys crossed over to where the girls were and knelt to speak with Sansa and Arya, who both stared blankly at her. “Come on, you’ve yet to eat since this morning.”

Both of them rose slowly, like moving was difficult and with the help of Jon, they were ushered down the stairs and towards the kitchen. Waiting for them all in the yard were the direwolves. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Ghost, Shaggydog and Bran’s still unnamed wolf were gathered looking as mournful as a wolves could look.

The six of them trooping across the yard must have looked a strange sight to all those in the castle, followed by all the wolves save for Bran’s who remained outside of the keep.

As they passed the servants and members of the household, Robb gave them a small nod of acknowledgement. He did not have time or appropriate emotional state to update them all on Bran’s condition. A nod was all that could be done.

In the kitchens, Gage the cook handed them all pieces of bread that they nibbled on and gave Sansa a lemon cake from a previous feast. The only sounds were the occasional sniffle and thanks.

At some point, Rickon had been transferred back to Rhaenys and fell asleep in her arms with crumbs from the tart that he was given and tears still wetting his face. She was swaying slightly offering all the comfort that she could.

Sansa had vanished, telling them in a small plaintive voice that she was going to pray in the Sept for her brother. Jon and Arya had hurried off to the godswood to do the same and beseech the old gods to help with Bran’s survival and recovery.

Robb knew that he should do the same, but he could not find the strength to move. Instead both he and Rhaenys stayed in the warmth of the kitchens while the sun began to set and little flakes of snow drifted from the skies, coating the windowsill.

It was dark when he finally gathered himself. “We should put him to bed,” he whispered to Rhaenys, who nodded in agreement, hoisting Rickon in her arms. He did not stir.

Unlike before when the keep was abuzz with gossip and murmurings, it was silent now. The rare sentry stood duty upon the walls and by the gates, but everyone else was locked away inside. Despair hung in the air like a cloying perfume.

Robb led the way and when they reached Rickon’s rooms, opened the door and let Rhaenys carefully lay him down on the bed, tucking the furs around his sleeping form. He twitched just a little bit, but settled when she pressed a good night kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep well,” she said softly, blowing out the last candle. The room plunged into darkness and she stepped out.

When the door shut, Robb finally succumbed to the anguish and fear that had been chasing him ever since he had returned from the thrice-damned hunt. His face crumpled and he sagged against the wall.

“I don’t want him to die,” he whispered brokenly.

There were no words exchanged between them, no false comforts or reassuring whispers. Rhaenys wrapped her arms around his waist and he buried his face into the crook of her neck. The tears that he had managed to push down were now emerging fast and it took all of his self-control not to cling to her like Rickon had been doing.

They held in each other in the dark while the snows fluttered around them, unable to find the strength to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you guys were hoping that Bran wouldn't fall and I was really considering scrapping that idea, but it didn't make a lot of sense with the plot line I was leaning to.  
> Anyway, I hope that you all enjoy this chapter. I know it took a little longer than usual but it was super hard to write. I really appreciate all the comments (I love replying to all of them and seeing what you think) and kudos, they are a writer's sustenance!


	15. GOODBYE BROTHER

The path to the godswood was well trodden in the weeks after. The Stark children, Rodrik and Jory Cassel and the rest of the household made a daily pilgrimage to the heart tree, but it was no use. Bran would neither get worse or better, instead hovering between life and death.

But Winterfell did not wait for him. Instead everything went on as it used to. The king and their party stayed with them, much to the obvious distaste of the queen, who stayed huddled with her twin brother in the warmth of the keep.

Rhaenys had heard the eldest boy, Joffrey, speak of how they ought to just kill him and get it over with, he was sick of the howls and wailing. Her hand had curled into a fist and she desperately wanted to punch him in his wormy lips, but she stayed herself when Tyrion Lannister backhanded him instead. It was nearly as satisfying.

For a fortnight the keep moved slowly, but Robert Baratheon and his hand could not stay away from King’s Landing forever. They would have to go soon enough.

Only Bran and Lady Catelyn herself remained unchanged. She would not leave his side, barely eating or sleeping.

Even Jon was going too. He was to travel North with Benjen and Tyrion Lannister to the wall to swear his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch.

Robb had tried to talk him out of it, arguing that with their father soon to be gone and his mother caring for Bran that he could not do it all alone, but Jon would not be deterred.

The day came soon enough. Rhaenys would not mourn the loss of the Lannisters and the Baratheons, but instead those who left with them. It was Jon who rode out first, joined by the Imp who sat as tall as any man upon his horse and Benjen Stark.

Rhaenys had remained quiet as Robb had said goodbye to his uncle, calling on him to look after Jon and not let him sulk too much in the snow. Benjen had laughed heartily and made no promises. He had disappeared off into the stables, telling Robb that if he saw his bastard brother he was to go and saddle his horse.

Snow began to drift down and landed in her braid, making her smile. Arianne had said that the North had grown on her when it was time to leave, and Rhaenys could imagine that if she had to leave alongside Lord Stark, that she would be quite sad too.

She had stood beside Robb and Grey Wind in the yard as he called out commands to the men on where the wagons were to be hauled and what was to be put in them when Jon had stumbled in from saying his goodbyes to Bran. His eyes were wary and it was obvious that Lady Stark was not at all sorry to see him go. Light snow landed in his dark hair, and he jumped back as a groom led a saddled horse in front of his path.

It was as chaotic as when her own family had left Winterfell, if not more so. Robb quieted at the sight of Jon. “Uncle Benjen is looking for you. He wanted to be gone an hour ago.”

“I know. Soon,” he replied, glancing around at all of the madness in the yard. Behind his solemn face, there was an expression of great yearning, like he didn’t want to leave at all. “Leaving is harder than I thought,” Jon looked at Rhaenys. “I don’t know how your family did it so… neatly.”

A ghost of a smile flittered across her lips. “Nor do I really. But I was not paying much attention that day. Too busy saying goodbye I suppose. And you don’t have to go like they did.”

Jon did not reply, instead he looked wistful, like he did not really want to go at all.

“Did you see him?” Robb asked and Jon’s face dropped. He did not reply, but they all knew that he had. It was painful to look at Bran, at what he was. He could have been a corpse, a breathing corpse, but still one all the same.

“He’s not going to die,” said Robb. “I know it. I know him.”

“You Stark’s are hard to kill,” Jon replied but it did not sound right. It did not sound like him.

“My mother…” Robb trailed off, like he did not want the answer.

Pasting a reassuring smile on his face, Jon nodded. “She was… very kind.”

All three of them knew it was a lie, but it was so much easier to hear a sweet lie than an ugly truth.

“Good,” he said. “The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”

Jon smiled at that. “It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?”

“Soon enough,” Robb vowed. The two embraced fiercely, clapping each other hard on the back. Jon bit his lip hard and Rhaenys was sure that Robb was doing the same thing facing away from her. “Farewell, Snow.”

“And you Stark. Take care of Bran.”

When they pulled apart, Rhaenys approached, grabbing him for a quick hug. He was tall enough that she could barely keep her feet on the ground when her hands were around his neck. Despite only truly getting to know him recently, she felt a kinship to Jon.

“Look after him,” Jon whispered. “The gods know he’ll try not to show any weakness but he is still green.”

“I will,” she replied and released him. “Look after yourself and try not to freeze to death upon the Wall.”

He let out a bark of laughter that made Grey Wind jump. “I’ll do my best.”

“Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if we saw you,” Robb began awkwardly but Jon shook his head.

“I have one more farewell to make,” he said.

“Then I haven’t seen you.”

Jon went towards the armory and Rhaenys watched him go until the people and the moving wagons obscured him completely from view.

“I’ll miss him,” Robb said, with a distant expression on his face. “I’ve never been without him. He’s always there. Even when we were just children toddling about the yard.”

“I suppose we all must learn to grow up,” she said.

“Aye,” he replied and turned back towards the wagons that were being dragged across the yard.

“I’m going to check on Rickon,” she said, knowing well that she was not needed to help with the loading. Rickon however was very much in need of her. With Lady Catelyn distraught by Bran’s beside and Sansa and Arya packing up their things, he was alone with Septon Chayle in his rooms.

Robb gave her a slight nod in acknowledgment and hurried over to where one of the many boxes of gowns Cersei Lannister had decided to bring with her was tilted precariously on its side. Rhaenys was to live there for the rest of her life and even she did not bring so many trunks.

Poor Rickon did not understand what was going on. He was not allowed into the sickroom where Bran lay. It was not fair for him to see his mother and brother in such a state. All he knew was that everybody was disappearing.

He looked miserable, fiddling with the pages with a heavy book. Septon Chayle was fast asleep in a chair by the door and Rhaenys poked her head in so Rickon could see her. Putting her finger to her lips, she gestured for him to come with her.

With a careful hand, he closed the book gentler than she thought possible for him and slipped from the room without a backwards glance.

“Do you want to come and play with Shaggydog?” she asked and he beamed.

“Really?” Rickon smiled, then stopped with apprehension spreading across his face. “But father said he wasn’t allowed out from the kennels.”

“We’ll stay in the kennels and I’ll be with you, I’m sure he won’t mind,” she replied. “We can teach him some commands.”

Nymeria and Lady were both able to fetch and sit along with all sorts of other tricks and Grey Wind and Ghost could do even more. Before the fall, Bran was able to teach his direwolf to fetch.

Rickon darted ahead, just like he always did, but instead of running without a care, he would stop and turn around to make sure that she was there, following behind him.

It broke her heart that in such a short amount of time he was growing cautious. He was still child, no older than her cousins and yet he worried in a way that nobody his age should.

She was so caught up in her mind that she nearly collided with a figure. Dread crawled up her throat as she saw who it was. _The gods must enjoy their little tricks,_ she thought to herself. _For this was not something I wanted to happen._

Rhaenys had managed to avoid Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane for almost the entirety of their time at Winterfell save for the feast. But here they were before her in their shining suits of armor and helmets tucked underneath their arms. 

Jaime gave an exaggerated bow, green eyes glinting in the light of the torches along the corridor. “Lady Stark.”

“Ser Jaime,” she inclined her head while hiding her fist in her skirts. Her nails dug into the skin and she was sure that she was drawing blood.

“I see that you’ve yet to meet the Hound,” he said, stepping aside so that she could see the great hulking man behind her. His face was horrifically scared and all Rhaenys could think about was his brother. .

“No I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” she replied through clenched teeth.

The Hound didn’t say anything. He just stared at her hard then stormed past her.

“He is a prickly fellow,” laughed Jaime and she had the overwhelming urge to punch him in the nose.

“Rhaenys!” shouted Rickon, reappearing behind Jaime. His face was wracked with worry and she tried to reassuringly smile. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, just a moment,” she called back, moving past Jaime. He still had his arrogant smirk plastered on his face.

“That was unnecessary. And cruel,” she said coldly, watching his eyes narrow. The smile remained, but the green of his eyes seemed almost concerned for her. “If you’ll excuse me."

He stepped aside without a word, like he almost felt guilty for what he had just said and she hurried up to Rickon who was scuffing his feet against the stone floor and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t want to see Shaggydog anymore,” he whispered. “I want to see Jon.” His bright blue eyes filled with tears and he threw his arms around her waist. “I don’t want him to go. Father is leaving and Arya and Sansa are leaving and Bran is gone and mother…” his lip began to wobble. “Mother hates me!”

“No, no, she doesn’t hate you Rickon,” Rhaenys knelt so that they were the same height. “Your mother is so worried about Bran. She still loves you sweetling. Just because she doesn’t say it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

“What about Bran?”

 “Bran isn’t gone Rickon,” she said trying in vain to comfort him. “He’s just asleep.”

“But everyone is leaving,” he whimpered. “I don’t want everyone to leave. It’s not fair.”

“Do you want to wave goodbye to Jon?” she asked quietly. Rickon nodded, furiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“We’ll go to the covered bridge,” Rhaenys resolved and took his hand. “And wave goodbye to Jon.”

From their position, they could see all of the yard. Robb had gone off somewhere and Jon must have been in the stables, ready to ride off into an uncertain future.

Rickon buried his face into her skirts and she absently stroked his head. The curls that matched those of his brothers flattened and then sprang back into shape and it made Rhaenys think absently of Arianne and her ringlets.

She watched as the Benjen Stark led his horse out followed by the Imp and what must have been a Lannister squire. There were two more following, but both had their hoods up and Rhaenys could not tell which one was Jon.

As they rode through the gates, wearing great big black cloaks that made it impossible to distinguish each of them from the others. Ghost would follow Jon, that she knew for sure. The direwolves would always stay with their Starks. But instead of following, Ghost was not moving, his tail wagging happily. Her eyes followed the horses and their riders, but the direwolves did not move.

Instead he began chasing Grey Wind around the carts and trunks that were still being dragged over the piles of snow. The happy yips of the wolves made her smile, but still she wondered. _Where was Jon?_

Rickon extracted himself from her dress and leaned against the windowsill, trying in vain to see what was going on below.

“Come on,” she said quietly to him as Lord Stark emerged from the great keep followed by Arya and Sansa. “Let’s go say goodbye.”

 

***

 

It was not an easy day. Robb did his best to distract himself, but doubt still wormed its way into his mind.

Everything that he did felt like a poor replacement of his father. His father would command more respect than he did trying to organize the chaos of the yard.

He was trying and that was all he could do.

But the snow had started to fall and it became a desperate race to get everything packed and to send everyone from Winterfell before the snows became too heavy for them all to traverse. After Bran’s… accident, the King been happy to stay for longer, but now was complaining that it wasn’t right for him to be away from his throne for so long.

But with the King leaving, that meant that his father and sisters would be leaving too and he didn’t want them to go. And it also meant that Jon would be leaving too.

Saying goodbye to Jon was harder than he thought it would be. It was that Jon had always been there.

They had said their farewells, bittersweet though they were and after it, all he could do was think.

Robb had pulled the heavy chests onto the backs of the wagons with the help of Jory and all he could remember was every time that his brother had helped him lug trunks around Winterfell when their father was doing inventory.

 _I don’t want him to leave,_ Robb thought suddenly and excused himself from the yard. _Just for a little while longer. Let us be young and stupid for a little bit longer._

He was saying goodbye to someone but that would not take forever, Arya most likely. Robb raced across the land so that he was just in front of the stables, ready to intercept him.

His guess was right, for Jon emerged looking forlorn.

“Uncle Benjen is waiting,” he said, scuffing his feet in the thin layer of snow that covered the ground. “He’ll be wanting to get going now.” Forcing on an artificial smile, Jon retreated.

“Don’t go,” Robb cried desperately. “I can’t do this all alone.”

Jon stopped short and his brow furrowed. “I have to, I’ve already told father and Uncle Benjen that I was going.”

“No, you don’t, they’ll both understand. Uncle Benjen has said that you’re too young and father is going anyway. He won’t mind.”

“Your mother will be upset,” Jon said dubiously, staring at the chasm that separated the two of them. Trueborn son and bastard.

“I don’t care,” Robb said defiantly. “You’re my brother. I need you with me. I need your help. I can’t do it all alone,” his words turned from those of a Lord to pleas He wanted to drop to his knees and beg him to stay.

“But you won’t be alone,” replied Jon. “You’ll have Rhaenys and your mother and Theon-“

“Rhaenys has never run a household before, mother is too worried about Bran to be any help at all, Theon will just encourage me to spend the coffers on drink and whores and the rest of them will compare me to father. Everything that I do wrong will be taken apart and examined. I need you Jon. I need my brother.”

“Father did it all alone.”

Silence. Robb didn’t know what to say because it was true. His father did do it all alone. He buried his father, brother and sister while uncle Benjen was a recruit at the Wall and raised Winterfell as a second son that had not been taught ruling. He ran his hand through his hair in part frustration, part fear.

“Please Jon,” he knew that he sounded weak, like the little boy he had once been who was afraid of the ghosts in the crypts and needed his brother to go with him to face his fears. “Please.”

_Does he really want to go to the Wall? Am I being selfish, taking away his chance to shed the bastard name that must weigh him down?_

Robb was prepared for Jon to shake his head, give him one last brotherly embrace and climb upon his horse and vanish into the distance, ready to don the black. It would hurt. That he knew.

Jon took a shuddering breath and Robb braced himself. “I’ll stay.”

It was a weight lifted from his shoulders and Robb could not help the smile that spread across his face. “Thank you.” Those words were not enough to express his gratitude, but they were a start.

“But not forever,” he warned. “I’ll stay for a year and then I’m going to be a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

Robb chewed on his lower lip and nodded, grin spreading. “Gods, feel free to travel to Braavos and become a mummer!”

“Perhaps not quite that far away,” Jon replied and reached over to grasp his hand in comradery. “Now I have to go tell uncle Benjen and father that I’m staying. He won’t be too happy about it.”

“Tell him if he wants to get angry, he can be angry with me.”

Jon smiled lightly. “Believe me, I will,” he turned and went into the stables.

Robb stayed still, letting the snow that still fell from the skies land all in his hair and along his shoulders. Then he heard shouting and horses neighing and he knew that soon, they would all be leaving.

The Queen looked irritated at how slow the progress moving and her two youngest children were wrapped in so many layers that they could barely be qualified as people. Little Tommen could have been rolled straight down the Kingsroad.

Father was speaking with Robert Baratheon, watching as the horses were led towards them by the grooms.

Sansa was beside Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane along with a rather irritated Arya. She was kicking up snow with a scowl plastered on her face while Sansa and Jeyne chattered excitedly next to her.

“I can’t wait to see the Red Keep, surely it will be prettier looking than here,” Jeyne squealed happily. Arya rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

 “What about the silks? It will be so warm and I won’t have to worry about wearing a cloak. And there will be more lemon cakes in the south,” Sansa said dreamily. “There are never that many here.”

“Arya,” he called and she looked up. “Are you all packed?”

“Yes,” she said, exasperated. “Septa Mordane made me pack twice because it wasn’t neat enough. I don’t see the point, it’s just going to get tossed around anyway and when I open it again it will be a mess.”

He shrugged. “There is not much you can do about it now.”

“No, I suppose not.” Nymeria came leaping towards them, followed by Grey Wind and Lady.

The King climbed upon his horse with help from one of the squires. Robb had already said farewell to his father in his solar, but wanted to speak to him again one last time. He wanted the reassurance that he would be okay, that he would not fail but it did not come. His father merely nodded and offered the comforting smile that he had seen so many times as a boy.

When they had spoken in the solar, his father had sat behind the old wooden desk in the same hard backed chair as always.

“Listen to Maester Luwin. Listen to Rodrik. Heed their counsel and do not make reckless decisions on your own,” father said sternly, donning the face of the Lord of Winterfell. “It easy to let a small matter go unchecked, but small problems grow exponentially.”

Swallowing hard, Robb nodded. “Yes father.”

“I know it will not be easy. But you are my son and I’m proud of you,” he said and rose from the chair. “You will make a fine lord Robb. That I know well. Trust in others, but also trust in yourself.”

“I will.”

They had embraced and Robb had allowed himself to pretend just for moment that his father was not leaving, but instead going to visit a holdfast and that he would be back in a few days. It was a lie, he was lying to himself, but the lie was so much easier than the truth.

His father turned away at the words of Robert Baratheon in his ear and Robb felt his heart sink. _I can do this. I can do this._

Arya bit her lip and looked to him with wide, anxious eyes. At their feet, the three direwolves frolicked in the snow as their masters threw their arms around each other.

“Seven hells,” Robb exclaimed loudly, earning a glare from Sansa as Arya leapt into his arms. Her legs hung limply, not touching the ground and she buried her face into the fur of his cloak, refusing to let go.

“I’ll miss you,” she said but the heavy material muffled it.

“And I you, little sister,” Robb replied, prying her loose carefully. “Be careful,” he said and Arya nodded.

“I always am.”

He raised a brow. “Are you really?”

“Yes…” she trailed off sheepishly. “Sometimes.”

Sansa gave him a significantly more ladylike hug, only holding on for a few seconds. “I’ll see you soon,” she smiled. “When I get married.”

_To that smug bastard Joffrey. Forgive me if I am not excited for it._

“Aye,” he said. “We will see each other again. I promise.”

“You needn’t promise,” she said with a titter. “I know we will.”

Rhaenys had slipped beside him holding Rickon’s hand and had given both girls a quick hug and whispered farewell to them both. Rickon had needed to be peeled from Sansa’s arms and came very close to having a tantrum as they both climbed upon their ponies. Sansa had complained about riding, but Arya was terribly excited about it all.

As the party passed through the gates and the wheelhouse containing the Queen and her children rumbled down the Kingsroad, Robb felt a sudden ache, like he had been stabbed in the heart. As he watched the banners recede, he had a sinking feeling that he might never see his family again.


	16. ECHOES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor explicit content at the end of this chapter.

A tiny little part of Jon regretted staying. A bigger part told him to stop complaining and to be happy that he was still in Winterfell, in his home. Then the whole, universal part of him said that he should just continue shoveling the horse shit from the stables instead of thinking like he was supposed to be doing.

Had Robb not been acting lord, he would be helping him and perhaps Theon might have dragged himself from between the legs of one of his whores to assist them too.

One of the many punishments that the three of them had earned on one of their little excursions to Wintertown was mucking out all of the paddocks. It was foul dirty work and Jon hated it with a passion but there was little else he could do. He found himself playing the role of child minder and stable boy far more than he had hoped.

His lord father had told him that much when Jon had announced that he would stay in Winterfell to help Robb for the first year.

“It is your choice Jon, but are you sure?” he had said. “You were so desperate to go yesterday.”

Exhaling slowly, he had nodded. “Yes, I am sure.”

“Then you may stay, but I will not be here and it will not be easy,”

“I know,” Jon said and he did. Compared to the treatment of the other bastards in Westeros, he was practically reviled. That was in part to Eddard Stark, who could have chosen to leave him in the arms of his mother, but instead took him to Winterfell and raised him like his own trueborn son.

Now he was left with Lady Stark.

Try as he might, Jon could not erase her words to him as Bran lay still as the dead before him. “ _It should have been you,”_ echoed through his head, each word working its way through his brain.

If he were to mention it to Robb, he would say that grief had warped her words, that she didn’t really mean it. But he would be lying. That was the clearest he had heard her sound since Bran had fallen. She meant it.

There had always been rumors that she wanted him gone from Winterfell. Father had done his best to quash them but some still managed to circulate. Maidservants would whisper and giggle behind their hands, on a drunken night Theon had jested about how Lady Stark had once threatened to send him to foster with the Greatjon.

Not that it mattered now anyway. Father, Sansa and Arya had gone. It had been a week since their horses had vanished over the horizon and yet it felt like an eternity.

He missed Arya the most, of course he did. She was the one who understood him best, always feeling out of place just like he was. He had already began writing her a letter, but it remained unfinished on the little wooden desk in his room.

Jon exhaled through his nose and straightened. He felt miserable, utterly miserable. Across from him sat Ghost, red eyes staring into his very soul. “Feel free to help,” he said facetiously, but the direwolf just lay down next to a pile of hay and wagged his tail.

The door to the stables creaked as someone entered and he twisted, nearly dropping the shovel that he had been using to muck out the stalls. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Rhaenys said, poking her head past the pillars. Her hair was tied back in a neat braid that hung over her shoulder and she looked quite exhausted. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here, but I just needed to get away for a while. Rickon had a tantrum about having a bath and it took an hour to calm him down.”

“I won’t, my lady,” Jon said and bowed graciously.

She rolled her eyes. “You needn’t do that Jon,” Rhaenys replied. “You’re my good brother, Rhaenys works perfectly well.”

He shrugged.

As she entered, she looked around. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“No, not at all. I’m just mucking out the stables.”

She grimaced, nose wrinkling at the smell. “Sounds lovely.”

“Aye, exactly what I planned on doing when I stayed,” he said and stabbed the shovel into a pile of horse shit so it stood up straight. “But there are worse things than this.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Certainly.” Jon watched as she pulled a handful of hay from one of the great piles of it and walked to one of the paddocks where a midnight mare stood appearing to be quite put out. “Robb gave her to me.” Stretching her hand flat and letting the hay rest on top of it, she held it out and the horse nibbled, making her chuckle. “I used to have a sand steed in Dorne, but I had to leave her behind when I came North. But she’s just as lovely.”

The mare was beautiful, black as the night without a star in the sky. She was a wild one too, Jon had seen her buck off one of the grooms who had attempted to give her a bit of exercise around the tiltyard.

“I’ve still not given her a name,” Rhaenys said, running a hand down the mare’s long neck. “Bran said that he would help me before it happened. He had tried so many names with his wolf you see, and we were going to list off some that might fit her.”

“She is a beauty,” Jon replied, leaning against the stall.

“Aye, that she is. I haven’t even taken her for a proper ride, one of the stable boys has been for me, leading her around the yard or for a jaunt through Wintertown.”

“Why don’t we go now,” he said. “Unless there is something pressing that you must do?”

Rhaenys paused, tilting her head slightly. “No. There isn’t.”

They saddled their horses quickly, Jon leading out a young stallion and making sure that he was properly reined while Rhaenys rushed to inform Rodrik Cassel that they would return soon and there was no need to worry.

He still insisted on sending one of the guards with them, for deserters and other unsavory fellows were forever appearing in the wolfswood. Once the spare horse was saddled, she vaulted onto her own mare and sped from the gates. Jon followed and Ghost chased him while the poor guard hurried into his saddle so that he might stay in range with them.

Watching Rhaenys ride was like witnessing a bird that had just been released from its cage take to the skies once more. At first, they went at barely more than a canter through a half-deserted Wintertown while she tried to get the young mare to adjust to her.

They bonded quickly, like Jon and Ghost had. She hardly needed to nudge her for the horse to follow her commands. Once they had reached the wolfswood, she could not contain what surely was restless energy and began to move increasingly quicker.  Very soon, Rhaenys was nearly out of sight.

“Robb told me that you were quick on a horse,” she shouted over her shoulder, voice carrying with the wind. “I see that he was mistaken!”

Jon urged the horse onwards, squeezing gently with his feet and he went marginally faster, but it was no use. She would win any race between the two of them and probably defeat her own husband as well.

He slowed and she turned around, returning to where he was. In her mad dash, she had lost the cord tying her hair back and now it was windswept around her face. Her cheeks were rosy and even stopping for a little bit had allowed the cold to catch up to her; she was shivering.

“Gods, I’ve missed this,” she said, as the horse came to a stop beside him. “Riding so fast that it’s impossible to hear anything apart from the wind and birds in the sky. It’s intoxicating, stronger than any wine or mead.”

He did not say anything, though he did agree. Instead Jon watched as Ghost darted through the trees after a large brown hare.

“Do you regret staying?” Rhaenys asked suddenly. “I know that you were set on leaving and all of a sudden, Robb told me that you would not go North with Benjen after all.”

Jon paused and furrowed his brow. “No,” he started slowly considering each word as it rolled from his tongue. “Well a part of me does I suppose, because for as long as I remain here, I will be a bastard. At the Wall, a name does not matter, they do not care if you are a lordling or a stable boy. Instead you are judged on character, bravery and selflessness. But Robb asked me to stay. I couldn’t abandon him like that. He’s my brother.”

“Robb is lucky to have you.”

He smiled softly at that. “He says it often enough, but I cannot spend my life here as the bastard brother of the lord of Winterfell. It would be a looming shadow that I could never escape. The Night’s Watch is the only place I can go. No honorable woman would marry a bastard and it would insult the lords to give me a holdfast. It is impossible to stay here forever, no matter what I want.”

A distant look crossed her face briefly. “So, you will go in a years’ time?”

“I will. Robb will be accustomed to ruling, Bran will-” he paused not quite knowing whether he should give voice to his hopes or to his fears, “awaken and Lady Catelyn will be able to assist with all of the ledgers and help him with any worries.”

“It seems so far away,” Rhaenys said. “The gods only know what will change then.”

“Aye, and the gods do have their tricks, do they not?” he replied. As if his voice had summoned him, Ghost burst through the trees, muzzle red as his eyes, wet with blood. He bounded over to where the horses were and stared up at Jon, wagging his tail fiercely.

She laughed. “They do,” she turned the horse slowly. “Now, will you give me a proper race, or fall behind like before?”

“Better hope that mare is as fast as she looks, or I fear you may lose my lady,” he crowed and urged his horse forwards once more.

 

***

 

It was strange to be in Winterfell after the gates had closed behind the last of the King’s party heading South. It took days for the loneliness to truly hit her, for everything to seem silent, but when she did feel the ache of solitude, she did her best to ignore it.

With Lady Catelyn staying with Bran in the sickrooms and Robb as acting lord, she found herself busy most of the time anyway.

There was hunt for a new steward as Vayon Poole had gone south with Lord Stark and his daughter and for a temporary captain of the guards that remained in the North. There needed to be a new master of horses too. Maester Luwin had given her a list of men, but she did not know enough of them to acceptably vet any potential candidates. Despite that, the duty was foisted onto her.

She had even become Rickon’s primary career, as his mother was with Bran. She would help the maidservants dress him, get him to eat all of his meals and then read him a story for bedtime. When she was not there, Old Nan would keep him busy, but he still cried easily and trailed Robb around the keep.

Sometimes she wished that she were Jon, who cared for the direwolves and spent time in the stables with the grooms, but she realized quickly that it was selfish. She was the acting lady of Winterfell and she should damn well be passable at it. The ride through the Wolfswood had been lovely, but she could not do it again. It was irresponsible and besides, she had far too much to worry about.  

Robb had even more burdens than she. During the day he would work with Rodrik Cassel to train the new guards and once the sun set, he would sit in the solar at his father’s desk going over the ledgers and figures while Maester Luwin hovered by his side.

Every night when he came to bed, the candles had nearly burned out and more often than not, she was fast asleep.

Rhaenys tried to stay up to speak with him, reading or embroidering or answering letters from Arianne or her uncles, but she was prone to dozing off in the middle, letting the book drop to the floor and finally closing her eyes just for a moment and then waking as the sun streamed through the window.

In the morning, without fail, she would be neatly tucked beneath the furs with whatever she was doing the night before lying neatly on the side table. But he was never there and his side of the bed was cold as ice, the window firmly shut.

Rhaenys had taken the first months of their marriage for granted, she knew that well enough. Now she was lucky if she could eat a meal with him for longer than a few minutes, before someone came with a problem or a request and he had to give her hand a quick squeeze and vanish again. She told herself time and time again that it was to be expected, that he was a lord now and with winter coming he needed to be prepared, but it still left her longing.

Love was not something that she imagined having with Robb Stark, and yet she found herself missing him more than she thought she ever would.

The sun had been set for a long time when she had finally managed to get Rickon into bed and asleep. He would ask for just one more story, one more kiss goodnight, one more wave at the door and when she finally emerged, she was prepared to throw herself into a hot bath and fall asleep herself.

She quietly made her way through the corridors, giving each person that she passed a small nod of acknowledgment. As she made her way down the stairs, she could hear low echoes, bouncing off the granite walls. They were coming from behind one of the pillars next to the great hall.

Theon Greyjoy was one of the speakers, she knew his voice well enough by now. He was talking very quietly and try as she might, she could not shake the sinking feeling that he gave her whenever he was around. He was Robb’s closest friend, but he still made her uncomfortable. Really, they had the most in common, both taken from their families, both of them had lost siblings, but Theon seemed to just complain all the time.

As Rhaenys turned the corner, he came into view. He was speaking with one of the kitchen maids, and by the blush on her cheeks and state of his breeches, she had intruded on something very private.

“Perhaps that would be better suited somewhere else?” she said as the pair broke apart.

The maid squeaked and curtseyed. “Of course, my lady,” she said. “I apologize.” She hurried off into the hall

 _You needn’t apologize,_ she thought to herself, instead looking at Theon, who leant idly back against the wall with an ugly smirk on his face. _Tis him I’m worried about. As lecherous as Robert Baratheon though he claims to hate the man. It’s a point of pride that he’s had nearly every girl in the brothels of Wintertown._

She raised a brow as Theon pushed himself forward. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“No,” he said and sauntered into the great hall after the kitchen maid. She sighed, but not follow him. Instead, she wanted to go see Bran.

The door was ajar to the sickroom, and she could hear faint whispers in the room. As she nudged the door open, worried that she might disturb Lady Catelyn, the murmurs stopped.

Robb was knelt by the bed, Bran’s hand in his own. At her intrusion, he briefly glanced up. Lady Catelyn was asleep in the chair beside her sons, probably so exhausted that she wouldn’t wake for some time. She looked just as ill as Bran, pallid and weak. The sun was not able to reach them from so far away and their skin seemed so translucent that she could imagine the blood and veins pumping through them both.

Rhaenys backed out of the room quietly, not wanting to disturb them. Robb had so little time with his brother, it wasn’t fair of her to ruin it.

Instead, she went to their chambers to finish answering the letter that Arianne had sent her. Apparently, her aunt Daenerys was in Pentos and has recently married herself. She had wed a Dothraki Khal called Drogo in an effort to raise an army to take back the crown and restore the Targaryen name. Viserys was called the Beggar King now, or at least that was what she was told.

It was odd to think of her aunt and uncle. Her grandmother Rhaella had been Dragonstone the night of the sack. Had Aerys trusted the Dornish forces, her mother and Aegon would have been with them and they would have been exiled across the Narrow Sea as well.

Rhaella was long dead now, but Rhaenys could still remember the sad smiles and soft silver hair that would shine like precious metals in the sunlight. She wondered what they were like, did Daenerys share the same delicate look as her mother? Was Viserys still as excitable as he once was when they hid in the Red Keep behind the skulls of the great dragons?

Shaking her head to clear it, Rhaenys signed her name at the bottom of her own reply to Arianne. There was little point in thinking about. She would probably never see either of them again. _Still, I wish them happiness. They are my family._

She left the letter on the desk and pulled on her shift, climbing beneath the furs.

When Robb returned that night, he looked like death. Rhaenys was still awake when he came in, quietly like he didn’t want to disturb her. Very slowly he stripped off his doublet and removed his boots, leaving them on the floor.

Rhaenys turned over in the furs and leaned on her elbow to watch him as he took off his tunic.

He sat on the bed softly and reached his hand out to touch hers.

"Are you alright love?” Rhaenys asked and lightly stroked the back of his wrist.

He smiled wryly. “Not particularly.” He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin in the top of her head.

“He’ll be fine Robb,” she started in futile attempt to reassure him.

“I don’t think he will Rhae, Maester Luwin said that even if he survives, he’ll never walk again. If he doesn’t die from this, finding out that he’ll be crippled will break his heart.” His voice broke and Rhaenys wanted to hold him tightly and never let go.

“Oh Robb.”

He shook his head as if he wanted to clear it. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It happened, and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

Rhaenys craned her head to look up at him and softly kissed his cheek, trying futilely to stop him from delving more into his own head and worrying about Bran. “He’s Bran. He’s stronger than everyone gives him credit for. Maester Luwin could be wrong and he’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps,” Robb said and turned to face her, pressing their foreheads together.

He kissed her; softly at first like he was waiting for her to stop him, but then it became more insistent. His arms reached around her back to loosen her braid and entwined his fingers in her hair. 

Rhaenys pulled away from him and looked into his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, Robb flipped the two of them over, so he was on top of her. He kissed her hard on the lips and slowly began to make his way down her body, softly pressing his lips to the tops of her breasts and loosening her shift so he could pull it over her head, leaving her bare.

Robb sat back on his heels, staring at her with adoration. “Gods, I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

He reached behind her head and pulled her up, so they were pressed together with their arms wrapped around each other.

Slowly, Robb pushed her back against the furs and moved downwards, kissing the underside of her breasts so she squirmed, then he moved to her stomach and then spread her legs and slowly lowered himself down to kiss her center. Rhaenys moaned out loud, before biting her lip to keep quiet. He kept going, causing her to grab hold of the furs tightly to keep from screaming as his head disappeared between her thighs.

Robb clamped his hands on her hips to stop her from writhing around. She panted and moaned and whimpered as the heat that blossomed between her thighs spread through to her entire body and she opened her mouth in a wordless scream.

He emerged from between her legs with a small smile on his face. “You alright Rhae?” She imagined that she looked a bit like a mess with her hair in disarray, her face flushed and panting.

“Shut up,” she said and hauled him up, so they were face to face once more. Robb removed his breeches so the two of them were bare, skin pressed to skin.

Rhaenys rolled her hips and she kissed him hard, wrapping her arms around his neck when he suddenly pushed in. She inhaled sharply as he began to thrust into her, slowly at first but then as Rhaenys began to moan, harder and faster.

She began to chant his name, quietly like a prayer but the closer she came to her peak, it became louder and louder until she came with a gasp. Robb thrust in a few more times, before spilling deep inside her and slumping against her, burying his face into her neck.

“I love you Rhae,” Robb whispered in her ear, before raising his head to kiss her hard again.

“I love you too,” she replied and ran her hand over the stubble on his cheek.

Robb rolled over onto his back and wrapped his arm around Rhaenys, pulling her tight into his body. She snuggled into his side and rested her head on his chest. The wind howled outside the window, snow whirling and flakes pressing against the glass.

“I’m worried about mother,” Robb said, breaking the silence. “She won’t leave Bran’s side. If he doesn’t wake soon, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“She’s grieving,” Rhaenys said. “Give her time.”

“I know, but we all are.” Robb replied, running his hand up and down her exposed arm. “Rickon needs her and I need her. I don’t know how to rule on my own. With father gone, and Bran is still in that bed, I need her to help me.”

“We will learn together,” she said softly.” If that is what is required of us, that is what we will do. Together.”

“Together,” he said. “It was not something that I ever planned on, us being together.”

Rhaenys craned her neck to look up at him. “Really?”

“It’s true, but now I find myself relying on my darling wife,” he murmured in a low voice. “I’ve missed you these past days.”

“And I you. It’s been lonely without you.”

He planted a kiss on the side of her head and pulled the furs up around the two of them, making it so that they were in their own private world, while snow drifted from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally plotted out this entire story, which let me tell you was a journey and a half. I had these super detailed important plot points at the beginning and then by the end everything was classified as shit happens or murders. Anyway, thank you guys for reading! I had the most comments I've had on a chapter ever on the last one and it made me so happy to read them. I take it you guys are pleased that Jon stayed!  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	17. WITHIN FLAMES

It had been eight days since the King’s retinue had gone south, eight days since the Stark girls and their father had disappeared into the distance, eight days of being the Lady of Winterfell.

Lady Catelyn would not leave her son’s side, praying frantically to every god that there was.

It was not easy seeing her good mother in such a state. She seemed to be withering along with Bran in the sickroom. Her red hair, that was once so vibrant had dulled, her sharp blue eyes became weary and bloodshot while dark circles formed beneath them. Her back hunched from hovering over the bed and she refused to leave the room to change her clothes, so every tear stained her dress. She was twisted by grief, so devoted to caring for Bran that both Winterfell and her remaining two children were pitifully ignored.

Robb was a man grown and had plenty of other worries and duties to tend to that the loss of his mother, while keenly felt was not as difficult for him, but Rickon, with each day that his mother was away became more and more desperate for her.

He was suffering the most out of them all, and when it came time for bed, would not stop crying.

It had been one of the maids, Branda, who had come to fetch her from the kitchens where she was going over the costs and what remained in the pantry from the King’s visit when one of the young girls bustled in.

“My lady,” she huffed, panting and red faced. “Tis Rickon. He won’t stop crying. We’ve tried everything but he just wails,” she was nearly in tears herself. “Even Old Nan cannot quiet him.”

Rhaenys sighed softly and excused herself from the kitchens, trying to keep pace with Branda. The tiltyard was quiet again and torches were beginning to be lit by the servants who hurried around with purpose.

“He’s in his rooms, my lady. He was fine until we tried to put him to bed and he began to cry for his mother and father. I thought that Old Nan would offer him some comfort but it wouldn’t work.”

She bit her lip. Bedtimes were the worst for Rickon because Lady Catelyn or Lord Eddard or Sansa or Septa Mordane used put him to bed and read him a story or two.

“I’ll do my best,” she said, but feared that her best might not be enough. _He’s a child surrounded by unfamiliarity and loss. When I was taken to Dorne, I was much the same, crying desperately when Mellario or Oberyn tried to comfort me. It is not easy._

She could hear him before she could see him, but the screaming quieted to a loud whimper when she entered the room. Rickon was sat on the bed in his night shirt, face red as his hair from exertion.

“Oh Rickon,” she said softly as fresh tears made their way down his face. Rhaenys crossed over to him and tried to reassure him, but he began wailing, making her wince from the noise.

She had not truly calmed a child for years. When her little cousins had tantrums, Ellaria would swoop in and carry them off, never telling the secret of quieting a child. Perhaps it was natural, all mothers knew how to do such a thing.

Rickon grew increasingly louder and she sat helplessly next to him, reaching out to stroke his arm softly, but he shoved her off. “You aren’t my mother!” he wailed and threw himself into the furs on the bed.

At a loss, Rhaenys remained still when the door creaked. Robb entered somberly, followed by Robb. Their hair was still wet from the snow outside and she glanced at them both with concern.

Slowly as one would approach a wounded animal, Robb moved to the bed, gently stroking her shoulder as he passed. “Rickon, what’s wrong?” He spoke gently in a voice that she recognized from her youth. Used by Oberyn to his daughters, Doran to his own children. Perhaps even Rhaegar had used it on occasion when she was being difficult.

The only reply that he gained was a muffled sob.

Robb lifted him from the bed deftly, face bright red and legs kicking like a newborn babe. He started shouting incomprehensible things and Robb sat him between the two of them.

“Rickon, what’s wrong?” Robb asked again softly.

At his words, he threw his arms around Rhaenys’ neck. “I-I want mother,” his voice wavered and he buried his face into the collar of her dress. “It’s not fair, why can’t mother stay with me?” Fresh tears fell and the cries that had been so loud and thunderous came in little more than a whisper. “I want mother.”

“I know sweetling,” she replied softly, gently rocking him.

His shuddering breaths began to even out and before long, he had passed out in her arms.

Carefully, Robb moved him beneath the furs, wiping the rapidly drying tears from his cheeks. “He’ll be tired. We must let him sleep,” he said and left the room.

Rhaenys took one last look at the sleeping figure with a heavy heart before softly closing the door behind her.

In the corridor, Robb was stood to the side with his face buried in his hands and Jon leant against the wall, looking exasperated. “I have to talk to her,” Robb said and his voice caught. “We cannot continue like this.”

“No,” Jon said in a low voice. In the dark, he looked exactly like his father, same strong brow, long face and icy eyes. “We cannot.” If Rhaenys had not known any better, she would have called him Lord Stark.

“What is there to do? She will not eat, barely sleeps. It is a wonder that she has not wasted away already,” Rhaenys said despairingly.

“I will talk to her,” Robb murmured to himself so softly that she had to strain to hear it. “I will talk to her,” he repeated slightly louder. While Jon looked like their father, Robb sounded like him, iron in his voice.

He turned quickly and Jon slumped against the wall. All the fight seemed to dissipate and the resemblance to Lord Stark vanished. He looked like a scared boy once more.

“I feel like a boy once more,” Jon muttered hoarsely, staring at the ground. “Trying to be better, live up to my father, pretend that I am not a bastard, that enough honor and chivalry can rid me of the sin of just existing,” he straightened then, pushing the mop of hair from his eyes. “It’s unfair of me, but sometimes I resent him, living the life that he has.”

Rhaenys blinked, shocked by the admission.

“She wished it was me,” he continued, turning away so she could not see his face. “I wanted to say goodbye to Bran. He’s my brother too and as I left, she told me that she wished it was me,” Jon voice trembled slightly with the last words. “I couldn’t tell Robb, I couldn’t pit him against his mother like that, but it keeps playing over again in my head. It won’t leave me alone.”

 _How do I reply,_ she thought desperately. _I’m not a bastard and while I’ve had more than enough death threats, never by the mother of my siblings._

Jon did not speak again, instead turning to look out the window to the darkness of the night. The wolves began to howl, muffled by the walls.

“The direwolves give Bran strength,” Jon said as another wolf joined the chorus.

She crossed to where he stood and leant against the sill, staring into the void alongside him. “Are they not the sigil of the Starks of old and new? Perhaps it is in his blood to be made strong by them.”

“Old Nan once told me that Bran the Builder had his own wolf,” Jon replied. “I don’t imagine it’s true. Old Nan is fond of embellishing her stories.”

“I’ve noticed,” Rhaenys said dryly as the howling grew ever louder. “She once told me that there were dragon’s eggs in the crypts of Winterfell.”

At that Jon let out a sharp bark of laughter. “She told Robb and I the same when we were children. We once decided to hold an expedition into the crypts to look for it. We were told that the dragon Vermax laid a single egg next to the hot springs.”

“Doesn’t matter now. The dragons are long gone,” she replied. “Along with their masters.”

Jon nodded absently and peered to the yard below. The howling of the wolves increased sevenfold and the hounds from the kennels joined, barking like they never had before. Her brow furrowed and a glance at Jon revealed the same expression.

“Something is wrong,” he murmured, thoughts crossing his face as he stared across the yard. “It’s the library tower!” he shouted suddenly and she looked in the same direction as he.

From the window, Rhaenys could see flames licking though the glass. Jon turned on his heel and sprinted down the corridor, his shouts joining the clamor of men realizing the same as he and the baying hounds. The howling had stopped, but with the loss of that noise, more joined, growing deafening.

Rickon was asleep, safe in his rooms, Bran was well away from the fire. The only thing she could do was see if she could help the men quell the flames. Rhaenys followed the path that Jon had taken moments before, taking care not to trip over as she ran.

The tower that had seemed infallible just hours before was now spewing smoke into the black sky. The books, ancient and fragile would be burning quickly inside the stone walls.

She stared out the window, eyes wide. Ash fell from the sky as fat flakes of snow, landing lightly in the hair of those running through the yard, desperately trying to help put out the flames, or standing transfixed by the sight in varying stages of undress. Rhaenys was equally hypnotized by the fire. It shouldn’t have frightened her the way it did, she was a Targaryen, yet there was a pit in her stomach.

Her grandfather was obsessed with fire. She could remember his favorite method of execution was to burn the prisoners alive, their screams loud enough to echo around the keep until all that was left was the blackened skeleton of what could once be called a man.

Despite the feeling that there was something wrong, she could not pull her eyes from flames leaping into the sky.

“Lady Rhaenys!”

She turned, jolted from her stupor. Running down the corridor was a young guard, no older than she. He was panting so much when he reached her that the words he forced out were punctuated with heavy breathing. “There… there has been… an… attack,” he wheezed and her blood ran cold. “Lady… Lady Catelyn was attacked. Lord Robb… request your presence.”

Without speaking, Rhaenys brushed past him and headed to the sickroom, quickening her pace with every step. By the time she reached the room, she was sprinting, the poor guard long left behind. Outside of the chambers stood three guards, each of them with a hand upon their swords.

The room was empty of both Lady Catelyn and Bran. Blood, bright and red was splattered on the floor and the walls, leaving bloody tears running down the bricks. The smell was overwhelming and it felt like death.

Instead, Robb sat upon the bed that had once held his brother, turning a dagger in his hands. Smeared across his cheek was a trail of blood and along his doublet. In the corner, a blanket had been thrown haphazardly over a suspicious lump and there was a dark stain spreading across the grey.

“You’re alright,” he said hollowly. “I was worried.”

“Robb,” she began with fear slipping into her voice. She swallowed hard and began again as he looked up. “Is she… is she hurt?”

“She lives,” he rasped, voice wavering. “She’s alive,” Robb steeled his voice, straightening. “It was Bran’s direwolf that saved them, he killed the attacker.”

He didn’t have to gesture at the body, she knew what it was. He lay the knife down on the bed with care, almost caressing the bright blade.

“What happened?” she asked, sitting beside him. She reached out across the chasm between then and laced her fingers with his, running her thumb across his knuckles. His hand was sticky from blood and it would not stop trembling.

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “The seven help me, I don’t know. He was bleeding out when…” he trailed off, squeezing her hand tight.

“Where is Bran?”

Robb shook his head. “I couldn’t leave him in here. Not with the body. He’s in his rooms with four men standing guard. Jon took him, and he will stay by his side and protect him.”

“And your mother?”

“Maester Luwin took her. He said that he would give her some milk of the poppy to help her sleep,” Robb rose, letting her hand drop back to her side. “I was planning on going to her, but I keep wondering why? Why here, why did he try to hurt her? What could a dead man hide? It’s not like I can ask him.”

He crossed to the man and crouched, pulling back the cloth covering him.

Rhaenys had never seen a dead man. That was quickly rectified. Blood still leaked from the hole in his throat, ragged strips of skin hung loose and the pockmarked face was already pallid in death. Around him lay a puddle, bright red and still spreading.

It took all of her willpower not to retch at the sight. She closed her eyes tightly, biting the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted blood.

Next to the man, Robb did not move. His eyes, so blue and vivid had become guarded and she could see the anguish from the situation written across his face.

He did not notice when she slipped from the room.

While Lady Catelyn slept, Rhaenys, Robb and Jon stayed at Bran’s beside with two guards at the door at all times. It was inconvenient at the best of times, but while the window remained open and someone sat with him, he seemed to improve, or at least he did not get worse. His direwolf lay at the foot of the bed like a sentinel guarding the old Kings of Winter down in the crypts.

Around the rest of the keep, a heaviness and apprehension set in. New faces were stared at accusingly, the maids travelled in packs and Robb insisted that she have at least one guard with her at all times if he or Jon were not available.

She had wanted to protest, tell him that she could handle a weapon well enough on her own, her uncle Oberyn had taught her well enough as a girl, but it gave him a peace of mind that he was sorely lacking after the attack.

He wore a sword at hip at all times and dedicated more and more time to the training of more guards. She had gladly taken some of his duties with Maester Luwin on and found herself staying up later and rising earlier.

It became a ritual for her to take the sword from its place of honor at his hip at night and lay it upon the trunk at the foot of their bed and then in the morning, buckle it back on around his waist.  

Rhaenys hated that he kept it with him all the time, but there was little she could do. She hated that they felt unsafe in Winterfell, hated that it was necessary to take such precautions, but there was nothing to be done.

Theon Greyjoy had been tasked along with Rodrik Cassel and Hallis Mollen, the new captain of the guards to find out what they could about the would-be assassin and Theon took great pleasure in announcing it to him in the solar when he found even the slightest thing, a smug smile across his face. They told him that the man had been haunting the yards, sneaking food from the kitchens, that some of the maids had seen him before.

Even Jon did what he could, flushing when they informed Robb that the man had been hiding in the stables. He took it to heart, blaming himself for not noticing, for failing. Robb had tried to stop it, and Rhaenys had spoken to him too, telling him that it was not his fault, but still Jon brooded.

In the four days it took Lady Catelyn to wake, Winterfell felt like an entirely different place.

When one of the maids bustled into the solar where the two of them were going over the ledgers, the relief that was shared over her suddenly turned into dread.

 _What new secrets would be shared?_ Rhaenys thought as Robb led the way to the chambers. _Seven help me, I am afraid. This act of violence cannot go unpunished, but what if it is someone who can’t be brought to justice?_

 

***

 

Robb was living upon a knife edge. The slightest incorrect move would have him sliced open. He had gone from having five siblings and both parents, to two brothers and no parents.

He would not forget the helplessness that he had felt when he saw his mother with bloody hands and an open wound at the crown of her head.

That feeling magnified, growing more and more with each day. It was insurmountable pressure. He needed to find who had sent someone to hurt his family. Theon had found ninety silver stags in the stables, buried underneath a pile of hay and when Robb had picked up a coin, he had clenched his fist so tightly that it had left an imprint on his palm.

It was a terrible thing, to feel unsafe in his own home. When he could, he would sit with Bran, going over the inventory or costs, vigilant at all times. The sword that hung at his hip was reminder enough of that.

Eddard Stark held Ice when he was to execute someone as a traitor to the crown, a deserter, a wildling, a murderer or rapist. Robb wore his sword at all times because he could not protect his family in his own castle.

In the days after the attack, he had gone to bed feeling years older. He was still getting used to the weapon he wore. It reminded him of something that Bran had asked moons ago. _Do you think Ice has become lighter for father?_ His brother had asked him that while his own arms trembled from the exertion of carrying his own sword.

 _It has not become any easier to carry,_ Robb though, hand drifting to the hilt. It was nothing special, not like the valyrian great sword Ice, which had gone south with his father. _Yet it becomes lighter in time, as all things do._

Much to his worry, he felt as if the weight of leading, coupled with worry for his mother and Bran was not becoming easier to bare, but was crushing him.

Robb could not go looking for the hiding place of the dead assassin, so he set Theon and Jon to the task. Hallis Mollen, one of the names that Maester Luwin had given for the new position of Captain of the Guards had joined them.

Instead, he inspected the training of the new guards, conferred with the Maester over the still form of his mother and brother. Perhaps it was selfish of him to spend so much time with them, but it relieved him to say their chests rise with each breath.

In the dark of Bran’s room, Robb allowed himself to grieve in silence. It had been ten days since his father had left, ten days and his mother was prone in her bed, the library tower had nearly burned down.

He did not know how he was supposed to be a lord. Especially not after this.

Chewing on his bottom lip, a habit he had carried from childhood, Robb stared at his little brother. He was so deep in thought, that he did not hear the knock on the door, or the creak of it opening.

“Robb.”

He turned.  It was Jon, hair still damp and cheeks still flushed from the falling snow outside. “We’ve found something. In the stables.”

Giving Bran’s limp hand a soft reassuring pat, he stood. “Show me.”

Jon led the way, stoic and silent. The footfall echoes through keep and with each step, Robb steeled himself for what Jon had found.

Theon and Hallis were by the entrance, looking wary.

“How did you know?” asked Robb when they got close enough. “That he had hidden here?”

“Straw on his clothes and the smell. He stank like he had rolled around it horse shit,” Theon replied, crossing his arms across his chest.

Robb pushed past him, following Hallis through past the stalls. He past the horses, the midnight mare Rhaenys had still not named, the pony Bran used to ride, the gelding Arya had begged to ride as she was old enough to not ride a pony.  

Hallis stopped near the end of the row, pushing open the paddock.

Next to a great pile of hay was a dark brown leather saddle bag. It held no sigil, no allegiance, but was well made.

“Look inside,” Theon said behind him and he could sense the smugness in his voice. “Go on, look.”

He pried open the clasp. Inside there was coin and lots of it. Silver stags. There were enough of them to feed a family in Wintertown for a week. A chunk of bread, going moldy and a small flask. He uncorked it and sniffed. Arbor Gold, strong and much too expensive for a man sleeping in the stables. He could have stolen it, or bought it with the money.

“How long has he been here?” he asked, staring into the contents of the bag.

Nobody answered.

“I’ve been in the stables plenty of times since Father left, how could he have been here this entire time?” he spoke more to himself than the others, but still he heard the nervous shifting of feet.

“So many people were coming and going, it was easy to ignore or miss just one man,” Hallis said. “It was so busy after Lord Eddard went south.”

Jon knelt beside him. “I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head and staring at the straw. “I should have looked, I should have known there was something wrong.” His voice was low and the emotion nearly undetectable, but Robb knew it was there, he knew his brother. He also knew that Jon would blame himself as he so often did, that he would brood and stay silent as the guilt ate him up inside.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “We all should have paid more attention.” His words were hollow, but he meant well. “Did you find anything else?” he asked, facing Theon and Hallis.

“I was planning on asking around the keep to see if anyone saw anything,” Theon said, pushing himself forwards from where he leaned. “Surely somebody must have seen something.”

“Yes,” Robb said. “Do that. I have to talk to Maester Luwin. Both of you,” he said, “look for something, anything to indicate why this happened.”

 Hallis nodded sharply and turned, just like a soldier would. Theon, much less discipled moved slower like nothing in his life was urgent.

“I’ll go too,” Jon muttered, disturbing the straw as he rose from his knees.

“Wait,” he said and grabbed his arm suddenly. “Jon, stay with Bran. If I can’t be with him and mother can’t be with him, I need you to be with him. He needs his family.”

Jon nodded.

In the days that followed, Robb found himself learning more and more about the man. He was a loner, staying well away from the others in Winterfell, he was probably hired by someone, the coin in his bag attested to that and he was in no way a professional assassin or a sellsword.  

The biggest question he had was who paid him? Who had wanted his family dead and was willing to give a substantial sum to see it through?

He had been in the solar with Rhaenys, making sure the ledgers made sense when the maids had come for them.

“My Lord,” she had said breathlessly. “Lady Catelyn has awoken.”

A wave of relief had crashed over him and he knocked over an inkwell and a stack of papers in his haste to get up from the chair.

“Fetch Rodrik Cassel, Hallis Mollen and Theon Greyjoy,” he said to the maid. “Tell them to go to her rooms but not to enter until I tell them to.”

She curtseyed sloppily and dashed from the rooms, followed closely by Robb and Rhaenys.

It was a long way to where his mother was, longer than it had ever been before. Apprehension had made a home in the pit of his stomach. A glance behind showed similar emotions on Rhaenys’ face.

He pushed open the door and still lying in the bed, looking better than he had seen in days, considering the circumstances was his mother. Her hands were still bandaged tightly and he could see evidence of blood seeping through the white cloth.

“Mother,” he let out a plaintive whisper. She was alive, awake and looked at him with clear and rested eyes.

Before he could say more, Rodrik, Hallis and Theon entered.

“Who was he?” his mother asked after a moment.

“Nobody knows his name,” Hallis said and told her of the man who had plenty of coin.

“It’s good to know that my son’s life was not sold cheaply,” she said bitingly and Robb felt his heart stop.

_Bran? The attack was on Bran?_

The others were equally as shocked and voiced their own concerns.

“Why would anyone want to kill Bran?” he asked, dumbstruck. “Gods, he’s only a boy, helpless, sleeping…” he trailed off and stared at her.

“If you are to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb,” Catelyn Stark, the mother who had chastised him for misbehaving, shone through and he felt properly shamed. “Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping child?”

It was the question that he did not want to answer. As the food arrived, he stared at Rhaenys from across the room, heart in his throat.

Maester Luwin entered, and examined the wound at her temple.

“Do you have the answer yet Robb?” his mother asked, palms upturned and the wounds that he was sure ached like the seven hells themselves.

He exhaled, trying to keep from trembling. “Someone is afraid Bran might wake up, afraid of what he might do or say, afraid of what he knows.”

She nodded. “Very good.”

Robb quickly set Hallis to work, sending him to put guards outside his door, ordering that Bran’s wolf remain in his chambers for additional protection. Rodrik quickly spoke of the knife that had been used in the attack, Valyrian steel like Ice and honed to a deadly edge.

With a strange, paranoid look in her eyes. “Robb, close the door,” she said, voice low.

His brow furrowed, unsure of why she was asking him to do so, but he obliged, letting the door slam shut.

“What I am about to tell you must not leave this room. I want your oaths on that. If even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my girls have ridden into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their lives,” she said and each word gave him even more to worry about. Sansa, Arya and father, all in danger and all far south, heading deeper into the territory of their enemy.

“Lord Eddard is a second father to me,” Theon said, bowing his head. “I do so swear.”

“You have my oath,” said Maester Luwin.

“And mine, my lady,” Rodrik reaffirmed.

Rhaenys nodded too. “Not a soul will learn of what was spoken here today.”

A single glance at his mother showed that she wanted confirmation from him too. He nodded his consent.

“My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her husband, the Hand of the King.” With her words, even his breathing became shallow. It was treason, she was speaking treason. “It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle. I do not think Bran fell from the tower. I think he was thrown.”

It was difficult to remain still. Robb wanted to mount a horse and chase the Kingslayer all the way to the Red Keep and run him through.

“My lady, that is a monstrous suggestion,” Rodrik said. “Even the Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent child.”

“He would not flinch,” Rhaenys said, staring out the window with a distant look on her face. “I grew up chasing his cloak and yet he watched in silence while my mother and brother were butchered. He did nothing to save me, or them. We are all well aware of Tywin’s limits, or lack thereof. Who is to say if the son is any different.”

“There is no limit to Lannister pride,” his mother affirmed. “Or Lannister ambition.”

As the sun began to set through the window, Robb listened to her plan, listened despite the churning in his stomach and ache that seemed to be plaguing him ever since his father had left. When she had finished, the pit only grew heavier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me ages to churn out, I just couldn't find words, you know? But ultimately I'm happy with how it turned out, despite being so difficult to get through. There is some recognizable dialogue from Game of Thrones in here. I have a bit of an aversion of rehashing canon scenes, but this was unavoidable.  
> I hope you all enjoy! Let me know if there are any glaring mistakes, (I'm a wee bit sleep deprived!)


	18. BENEATH THE BROKEN TOWER

“It’s treason,” Rhaenys whispered to herself as she left Lady Catelyn. “Treason. Even suggesting such a thing is treason.”

_Is it cowardly, that I fear justice could unbalance the precarious scales that Westeros teeters on? Lord Stark would never storm into the Red Keep demanding Jaime’s head like his brother did to Rhaegar, but still, knowledge is a dangerous thing and can easily twist the mind._

She had grown up fearing the lions, and the visit by the king had reignited nightmares that she thought long passed. His children were more Lannister than Baratheon, there were far more banners of red and gold than black and yellow. And now, Sansa, Arya and Lord Stark were surrounded by hungry beasts, unaware of the danger.

Her mother had never received justice, neither had her brother. But Bran, Bran was innocent too, making only the mistake of living the life of a carefree child and nearly paying for it in death.

She thought back to the conversation in the chambers, of what had been said in low tones while wary looks were thrown to the door.

Maester Luwin had been the voice of reason. “All we have is a conjecture. This is the queen’s beloved brother we mean to accuse, she will not take it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent,” he said, sounding as old as his many years.

“The proof is in the dagger. A fine blade like that will not have gone unnoticed,” Rodrik Cassel replied, clasping his hands together.

“He could easily say it was stolen or misplaced,” Rhaenys said, glancing around the room. “Such evidence can be dismissed with a few words. It may never have belonged to Ser Jaime in the first place. This is far too important to hinge upon something as simple as a dagger. There must be more.”

Rapping his fingers lightly upon the hilt of his sword, Robb spoke. “Bran fell from the near the broken tower,” he said, only the incessant tapping of his hands betrayed the worry.  “There is surely to be something there to confirm or deny our suspicions.”

“Go,” Catelyn said, staring from the window. “Go and see what is there to find.” They filed from the room, Maester Luwin lingering for a moment until she dismissed him with a nod. “Rhaenys, stay for a moment. I would speak with you about something pressing.”

Her eyes met Robb’s and she tilted her head, perplexed. With a shrug so small that it really couldn’t be counted as one at all, he left and suddenly it was just the two of them.

She turned back to her good-mother, who flexed her wounded hands, wincing with each movement. “How are your hands?”

Catelyn exhaled harshly through her nose as if even mentioning them made her palms hurt even more, laying them back upon the bed. “They hurt, but it is bearable simply because the alternative was not.” Her words reminded her of years ago when she was a little girl and hearing Elia and her scream when Aegon was ripped from her arms.

That was the alternative, the difference between a living child and a dead one. The only thing standing between a life and death was a mother. 

Rhaenys sat in the chair beside the bed while Lady Catelyn clumsily poured the mint tea the maids had brought into a cup. The steam had dissipated long ago and it was surely going cold, but she did not ask for a new pot.

“I’ve not the stomach to eat,” she said and sipped the drink, taking care not to spill any.

Rhaenys waited quietly, hands crossed neatly in her lap while she finished the drink. There was nowhere to be, and it was a relief to see her mobile instead of prone in bed or mad with grief.

“Robb was born in Riverrun,” she said suddenly, placing the cup on the side. “When he was a babe, he used to kick off his blankets as he slept. It would terrify me, I thought that he might freeze to death in the night. My own mother died when I was young, birthing a brother who did not live either. She could not tell me about children and how to care for them. The last child I had been around was my younger brother, Edmure.”

She recognized the name. Arianne had once been offered a proposal by Hoster Tully to travel to the Riverlands and meet his only son, who must have been Edmure. Doran had refused it and she had been furious for weeks refusing to even speak with him, especially after he had offered Walder Frey as a husband in his place.

“Instead,” Catelyn continued. “I made do while my husband fought in the south. At the time I believed that it was what children did, fought against the covers and drove their mothers mad with worry, but when my other children were born, I realized that he was northern by birth and Riverrun was too warm for my boy, no matter where I had brought him into the world. I am not a northerner, despite mothering five of them and marrying another. It is a difficult thing to be thrust into that position and I am sorry for putting you through the same thing that happened to me.”

Rhaenys blinked. “You need not apologize,” she said. “I’m sure I would have been the same had it been my child.”

Catelyn shook her head and laid her hand gently upon Rhaenys’. “I have spoken to Robb, and he agrees that I owe you an apology. I had not planned on you taking on the duties as early as you did and I wanted to thank you.”

She flushed, ducking her head as her cheeks flamed red. “It was nothing.”

Catelyn sighed softly. “Soon, you will have children of your own and it will become much harder to balance it all. It is not easy to care for babes while running a household.”

The conversation faded and they sat in companionable silence while her good mother finished her tea.

“I must confess,” Catelyn said, setting the cup down upon the side table and lowering her voice considerably. “I have an ulterior motive for asking you to stay. I wished to ask you about Jaime Lannister.”

Rhaenys grimaced. “I knew him a long time ago and I was younger than Rickon is now. I don’t know what there is to tell.”

“Anything could be vital,” Catelyn said in desperation. “Do you think that he could be the culprit behind,” she swallowed hard and looked away, trying to hide the sheer exhaustion and sorrow in her eyes. “Behind Bran’s fall?”

She thought back to her time in the Red Keep. She had spent more time at Dragonstone than in King’s Landing, but she had been older when she had run the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“I don’t know Ser Jaime anymore, but when I was a child, he was kind to me,” she said, wracking her brain for anything that he had been around for. “I remember that he taught me how to make shadows using my hands, he said he used to do it with his brother when he was a boy.”

“Was that all?” Catelyn asked, brow furrowing.

“He was the Kingsguard who would stand vigil in the nursery and he would comfort me when there was nobody else around. Once he let me try and hold his sword.” She could barely even lift it from the ground, but every second of it had thrilled her. “But that was nearly eight and ten years ago. When I encountered him here, he did not seem the same man.”

Rhaenys hoped that it was not him who had caused the Starks so much pain. She was desperate for it, but she could not deny that the evidence was beginning to pile up. Despite seeing him at Winterfell, Rhaenys could remember the kind Ser Jaime, the Ser Jaime who had played with her beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. But there was no Ser Jaime anymore, only the Kingslayer.

Catelyn nodded. “I hope that it will not come to it, but someone will have to ride south to alert my husband of the Lannister’s treachery if Robb finds sufficient proof.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Rhaenys silently agreed. Lord Stark could not be left in the dark about the new developments. “Who?”

“I do not know yet,” she said. “But I will, soon enough.” A loud knock upon the door made Rhaenys flinch. “Enter,” called Catelyn and one of the maids came in, bobbing slightly with a tray of bandages in her hands.

“Begging your pardon, milady,” she said timidly, tray shaking as her hands trembled. “Maester Luwin asked if I would fetch some clean bandages for you. He said that he would be along presently.”

Rhaenys took her leave, with all the words and things that had been discussed churning in her head. _Treason, if it is true, it is treason._

 

***

Robb found Jon in the tiltyard, furiously hacking at a training dummy with his sword. Stray pieces of straw flew out from the burlap sack and landing haphazardly upon the small piles of dirty snow that remained from the storm mere days ago.

His half-brother’s face with red from exertion and his curly hair stuck to his face.

It took more than a few minutes for Jon to notice him, but Robb did not want to surprise him. He had been on the receiving end of a shock when Rhaenys’ uncle Oberyn had come up behind him when he was releasing his own pent up aggression on a dummy made of hay.

So, he stood patiently, arms crossed across his chest while Jon spilled the guts of his lifeless opponent.

 “I know you’re there,” Jon panted, dropping his sword arm and glancing behind him.

“I need your help,” Robb said, taking a step closer.

Shrugging, Jon sheathed the weapon and turned. “With what?”

He paused. His mother had made them all swear not to speak of her suspicions to anyone, lest word got out. But Jon was his brother. “My mother asked me to look for something in the First Keep. It will not take long, but it will be easier with two pairs of eyes.”

“Alright.”

As the pair of them crossed the yard, Robb found himself lingering beneath the broken tower. It was jarring, to stare at the top where crows squawked from their nests at the top. That was where Bran liked to climb, near where they had found him almost dead. Blackened stones could still be seen from the lightning strike that had happened long before any inhabitant in Winterfell had been born. Next to the tower sat the First Keep.

It was empty and as long as Robb knew, always had been. Father had said that the Starks had not used the First Keep for centuries. When he was younger, he used to sneak inside with prompting from Theon and see how far he would dare to venture inside before someone would catch him.

After some nightmarish stories told by Old Nan about crumbling stone falling on the heads of little boys who didn’t listen to their parents, Robb had stopped going inside, but always wondered whether it would ever be restored to its former glory.

Pushing open the creaking door, Robb entered carefully, followed by Jon.

“What are we looking for?” asked Jon, every footfall echoing off the walls.

“It won’t be down here,” Robb murmured. “Whatever it is will be at the top.”

Jon scowled at his answer, but climbed the stairs, taking care to avoid the gaping pits in the granite.

Father had always said the First Keep was much taller than it seemed and it was surely true as they made their way to the top. As he looked out the windows, the yard became smaller and smaller, men who were training under the watchful eye of Hallis Mollen shrunk exponentially until they were barely distinguishable from one another.

When they reached the end of the stairs, Jon turned. “Now will you tell me what I’m supposed to be searching for?”

“Anything that shouldn’t be here. The First Keep hasn’t been inhabited in centuries, there should be nothing recent at all.”

“Well that’s terribly helpful,” Jon replied sullenly as he moved across the room, peering out the window.

Bran had fallen from near the broken tower, so that was where Robb would look. A loose brick, perhaps an errant scrap of clothing or even some footprints, anything could prove that the Kingslayer was once here. Rhaenys was right when she said that the dagger was not proof enough.

It was dangerous to imply that Bran had been pushed in the first place, and not fallen like they had all believed at first, even more so to say it had been done by a man of the Kingsguard, a man supposedly of honor, a man sworn to the king and a Lannister at that.

The thin layer of dust had been disturbed. There were marks along the floor, marks that surely had not been there before the progress of the crown North. Robb was carefully, doing his best not to disturb anything more.

“Robb,” Jon called from where he knelt. “You said anything that shouldn’t be here?”

“Yes,” he replied, and crossed quickly to him. “Have you found something?”

Jon slowly moved aside, letting Robb squat beside him. “I don’t recall seeing anyone with golden hair since the queen and the Kingslayer were here,” he declared while Robb stared at the paving stones.

It shone bright in the light and it did not take a clever man to know who it belonged to.

_It’s true,_ he thought, staring blankly at the single strand of proof.

“Will you tell me what is going on Robb?” Jon said, frowning at him in the way that he always did when he was concerned. “I’ve let you brush away my questions, but I have to know. What is it that you’ve gotten into?”

Robb exhaled heavily, then rose, crossing his arms across his chest. “It is not easy to explain,” tapping his fingers upon his arm, he turned, meeting his brother’s gaze.

“Try,” implored Jon.

“It is not that I do not want to tell you,” Robb tried to explain, but he could not find the words that he needed. “I swore an oath that I wouldn’t speak of it, not yet.”

“Not yet,” he scoffed, standing and staring out the window. “Then when? I stayed in Winterfell because you asked me too, because you said that you couldn’t do it without me, but you will not tell me why I am looking around a crumbling building for something that shouldn’t be here.”

Robb strode over to where Jon stood. “I can’t tell you now, but I will explain everything. Go find Theon, Rodrik and Rhaenys, and take them to the godswood. Everything will be explained presently.”

Jon did not look convinced, but made his way to the stairs. He glanced back once, forehead creasing and Robb was struck suddenly by how much he looked like their lord father.

Taking a handkerchief that Sansa had embroidered for him some years ago, he wrapped the golden hair in it and put it back on his pocket.

It was proof. Not much, but enough to at least help convince his lord father. Robb took one last look from the windows down to the yard before following Jon down from the tower.

He had gone to fetch Maester Luwin from the rookery where he was feeding the ravens, telling him that he had found something and his presence was required in the godswood before going to get his mother.

She was with Bran, but this time instead of despairing, there was a steel to her, the eyes that had been bloodshot and deadened were clearer than he had seen since the fall.

“Mother,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “We must speak. Jon and I found something.”

His mother looked surprised that he spoke of Jon, but did not object, instead standing and following him as he led her to the godswood.

Theon, Jon, Rodrik, Rhaenys and Maester Luwin were stood waiting for them. The tension was thick and Robb could feel uncertainty radiating from all five of them as he and his mother approached.

Jon looked concerned as if Lady Catelyn would suddenly reveal a sword from beneath her cloak and behead him, but she ignored him completely, even as their mismatched group entered the godswood.

When they were all situated near the heart tree, Robb pulled the kerchief from his pocket and handed it to Maester Luwin.

“You said we needed more proof, or all the claims would be false,” he said as the old maester unfolded the linen with care. Beneath the few sunbeams that penetrated through the trees, the hair shone. “The only man or woman to have hair that golden are the Lannisters,” Robb announced, meeting his mother’s eye.

“Can you be sure?” Rhaenys questioned. “Is there no other way for it too belong to someone else?”

Rodrik shook his head. “All those living in Winterfell know well enough that the First Keep isn’t safe. Many a man has had his skull dashed when he makes one wrong move.” From the way he spoke in such grave tones, Robb could have guessed that he knew an unfortunate soul that had lost their life in that building.

“If it was not one of ours,” Theon began. “And the rest of the Lannister squires were at the hunt, the only man it could belong too is the Kingslayer.”

“But what did Bran see?” Rhaenys asked, twisting her fingers in her skirts. “Why did he have to be thrown from the tower. What happened in that room?”

As if she just had a terrible realization, his mother exhaled shakily. “Someone must go to King’s Landing. There is only one way to find the truth and it is in the Red Keep itself.”

Robb did not think about it, the word materialized in the air. “I will go.”

“No,” she said. “Your place is here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” A silence fell over them, only broken by the loud caw of a raven. “I must go.”

“My lady,” Maester Luwin warned, tugging at the chain around his neck. “Is that wise? Surely the Lannister’s would greet your arrival with suspicion.”

“And Bran?” Robb ventured, perplexed. “Surely you cannot mean to leave him.”

“I have done all that I can for Bran,” she said almost serenely, laying her bandaged hand upon his arm. “He is in the hands of the gods and Maester Luwin now. As you reminded me Robb, I have other children to think of now.”

He thought back to the words they had exchanged before the fire and chastised himself for being too harsh. A necessity at the time, but now a mistake.

“You will need a strong escort my lady,” Theon said.

“It will be safer with Hallis and some guardsmen,” Rodrik said and Robb was inclined to agree, but his mother shook her head.

“No. A large party attracts unwanted attention. I’ll not have the Lannister’s know I’m coming.”

Robb wanted to protest, but he knew she was right.

“My lady,” Rodrik replied. “You cannot go alone, it’s dangerous on the Kingsroad for a woman, let alone one who is by herself. Let me accompany you.”

His mother let out a strange, soft laugh. “I will not be taking the Kingsroad.”

“What will you do?” Rhaenys asked. “Is there a way besides?”

“Two riders are quicker than a host burdened by a wheelhouse and wagons. I would welcome your company Ser Rodrik,” Catelyn said. “We will follow the White Knife down to the sea and hire a ship at White Harbor. Strong horses and a brisk wind will bring us to King’s Landing well ahead of Ned and the Lannisters.”

The blade at his hip felt heavier than ever, weighed down by the knowledge gleaned by their investigation into what had truly happened when Brandon Stark fell from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some recognizable dialogue from A Game of Thrones. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I've already got some of the next two written so they shouldn't take ridiculously long. If you liked this, feel free to let me know, every time a see a new comment I get all warm and happy inside!


	19. PASSING DAYS

Lady Catelyn left three days hence. She had originally wanted to go the day after it had been decided, but Robb had convinced her to stay just a little bit longer.

“Rickon has gone so long without his mother,” he had pleaded. “He needs you, just for a little while to reassure him. You said that your other children need you. Rickon is one of your children.”

So, she had remained in Winterfell, just for a while, spending her days with Rickon, reading to him and planning her journey while he chased Shaggydog around the yard. Robb and Rhaenys continued in charge of the household, but it was easier, as Catelyn offered them tidbits of advice when she could.

“The baker in Wintertown often does not get enough grain, and runs out quickly,” Rhaenys had been warned by her good mother. “Try to convince him to get more.”

Robb had also been on the receiving end of information, such as who would best take on the duties of the steward with no Vayon Poole and whether or not there should be more guardsmen trained.

It was far less intimidating, having Catelyn there to guide them both through the most confusing parts of ruling. Rhaenys found herself enjoying it as well as learning more about what it took to run such a great house.

But it all quickly came to an end. Much like her daughters and husband, Lady Stark vanished through the gates with Rodrik Cassel at her side while her eldest son watched from the yard.

“Everything is changing so fast,” Robb said to her as he watched the horses disappear over the hill. “Sometimes I feel like Rickon, helpless while everybody comes and goes.”

Rhaenys smiled sadly. “I suppose we don’t have much choice, do we? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

He pulled her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and rubbing her arm comfortingly. “Aye, there must be.”

She did not want to leave the comfort of his embrace, it was so easy to pretend that there was no worry, no problems when she was surrounded by warmth, but alas, it ended quickly and Rhaenys found him pulling away with soft words.

“I have to help Hallis with the new men,” he murmured in a soft voice. With a gentle kiss, he let go of her waist. “I’ll see you later.”

She nodded her head as he headed over to the armory, stopping to exchange words with Mikken, who was delivering new steel.

For once, she had little to do during the day. There was no Rickon to worry about, he was safe with Branda in the nursery, playing with toy swords. Bran was guarded by three men, each heavily armed.

She had planned on answering one of Arianne’s latest letters, that were filled with dirty innuendos, tales of life in Dorne and occasionally information of her aunt and uncle across the Narrow Sea. The last she had learned was that her aunt Daenerys was with child after marrying Khal Drogo.

As she made her way to the maesters turret, Rhaenys wondered to herself what else could possibly change in the coming days. Surely there was nothing left to surprise her.

Apparently, she was wrong, for a week after Lady Stark left, while Rhaenys was watching the training with Robb, one of the maids began to scream as loud as she possibly could; “he’s awake! He’s awake!”

Bran’s wolf came barreling from the godswood brushing past her legs and running up into the tower.

The chorus of shouts became even louder and after the initial moment of shock, and sheer confusion, Rhaenys ran to the sickroom, legs shaking by the time she reached the top of the stairs. She was at Robb’s heels and he was sprinting up the steps two at a time quicker than she had ever seen.

He threw open the door with a loud bang which even made her jump, but that was not what truly astounded her.

From where he sat wonderfully awake, Bran looked up with the noise.

“His name is Summer,” he said serenely from where he sat on the bed, stroking the direwolf’s fur carefully. In the light that streamed from the open window, he could almost have been a ghost.

Still panting heavily from the race upstairs, Robb slowly approached him, like he was scared that if he was touched, he would crumble like the very tower he fell from. “You’re… you’re awake?” stumbling over his words. Every step closer made her heart thrum, and she wanted nothing more than for Bran to rise from the bed and throw his arms around his elder brother.

Robb stepped closer until he was beside the bed. Suddenly he embraced him, and Bran’s thin arms reached around his neck, clinging to him tightly like a babe.

Rhaenys could not suppress the smile that split her lips at the sight of him awake, and brushed away happy tears as she watched them.

“Where are mother and father?” Bran asked when they finally separated. He was painfully slim, cheeks hollowed out and despite being asleep for so long, there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Robb glanced behind him at her, like he was frightened saying the wrong thing would break his already fragile sibling.  

“They- they left,” Robb said gently, patting his hand. “Father, Sansa and Arya left with the King and mother followed a fortnight later.”

It was difficult to read Bran’s expression, but the trembling of his lower lip betrayed his anguish. “How long was I asleep?”

“Nearly two moons,” Rhaenys said, trying her best to be reassuring but with each word, his hands shook and eyes welled up.

He swallowed hard and with new determination, Bran looked down at his fur covered limbs, where the newly christened Summer lay. “Why can’t I move my legs?”

Before Robb could formulate an answer, there was loud knock on the door. Before anyone could stand and open it, Rickon bundled in, followed by Jon who was trying to slow him down. The youngest Stark could not be contained, and instead threw himself at his brother, bawling loudly.

“He wouldn’t wait,” he said helplessly but beneath his apologetic words, Rhaenys could see the same demeanor as in his half-brother. He needed to see Bran too.

“It’s alright,” Robb said as Rickon’s shout turned into single words and then full sentences. All that could be heard in the room was a clamor as Rickon desperately tried to tell Bran of everything that had happened since he had fallen.

“Shaggy got locked away, but it was okay because when father left, Robb let him out again and there was a fire in the library and I don’t have to learn my letters  and I learned how to spell my name,” he recounted happily yet loudly, refusing to lower his voice so that surely all the guardsmen in the yard could hear him through the open window.

From over their heads, she could see Jon terribly relieved in seeing Bran conscious. He met Robb’s eyes, grey meeting blue and they seemed to have a silent conversation. 

When Rickon had finally quieted, Bran looked up and his eyes brightened.

“Jon! You stayed?” he crowed and Jon strode over, scooping him into a tight hug. Although she could not see his face, when he withdrew, he was rubbing his eyes with his fist fiercely. 

“I couldn’t leave your brother to lord around on his own, could I? He’d make a mess of it,” said Jon, with a crooked grin, mussing up his hair just like he used to in the tiltyard when Bran managed to hit a target.

Bran giggled just as the door was pushed open again, creaking loudly.

Maester Luwin glided into the room with a brown cloth bag over his grey robes, pulling at the chain collar chafing at his throat.

“Come on little lad,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. She hauled Rickon off the bed, and for once he did not fight her, instead going as limp as a rag doll. He would not put his feet on the floor, so she held him in her arms while he stared blankly.

Summer did not move from Bran’s side, but lay his head upon the pillow with a soft whine. Maester Luwin artfully avoided the wolf, instead drifting to the other side, peering into Bran’s eyes.

“What’s wrong with my legs?” Bran asked again. “I can’t move them.” To illustrate his point, he thumped them with a fist and then tried to get them to simply twitch, eyes crossing with concentration.

Maester Luwin did not answer either, instead shuffling to his side and with more flourish than necessary, moved the furs off of lower body.

She hadn’t truly seen the state of Bran’s legs until now, previously always being covered by sheets and blankets so that the shape of them was the only thing left, but they were worse than she had thought. The bones were obviously broken and brittle. There was not an ounce of fat upon them, and all the muscle had been stripped away until they were more akin to sticks than limbs.

She was not alone when she gasped. Her eyes shot to Robb, who was equally as horrified, but no one more so than Bran.

He was silent, staring at them in terror and confusion until his breathing sped up and the shallow spurts made filled the room. “They aren’t my legs!” Bran cried, looking to them in a blind panic. “They aren’t my legs!”

“Bran,” Robb began softly, trying to comfort him, but he would not calm, instead he desperately tried to make them move, hitting and wriggling in the bed.

“Those aren’t my legs, Jon tell him! Tell him these aren’t my legs Jon, please! Please tell him!” he was close to tears, voice wavering with each word.

With Bran’s distress, Rickon was becoming more and more frightened, and he began to cry too, fighting to get back to his brother. He fought as a true wolf, squirming and kicking in her grip as she tried to calm him.

“Bran!” he cried, straining and wriggling like never before, hands clawing at those arms keeping him captive.

At Bran’s side, Summer was also restless, yellow eyes wide and alert, ready to eliminate any threat to his master. He did no move, but he was alert like only the direwolves could.

Rickon kicked hard once more and she shouted, wincing as he caught her shin with his boot. The shock caused her to release him and he launched forward, tearing free from her grip. Before Rhaenys could grab him again, Rickon threw himself at the bed, nearly tacking Maester Luwin to the floor, who was tending to his charge. Before he could get any closer, Jon scooped him up and held him so that he could no longer struggle, keeping him tight to his chest.

He continued struggling, tears streaming down his face, cheeks red and voice growing horse. It did not take long for him to calm, and when he did, Jon lifted him up into his arms.

“He can’t stay,” Robb murmured in a hushed voice from where he sat, holding Bran tight to his side, rubbing up and down his arm, trying to soothe the sobs.

“I’ll take him,” Rhaenys said, crossing over and hoisting Rickon so he was upon her hip, curly head resting on her shoulder and tears already soaking the sleeve of her gown,

Bran’s adamant cries that they were not his legs had turned into loud sobs and she was tearing up too as she left the room, stroking Rickon’s back as he hiccupped.

She looked once more back into the room, Bran’s legs were now covered by the furs, Jon was stood next to Maester Luwin, hands twisting and Robb sat on the bed with Bran, trying to calm him.

Rhaenys left before tears clouded her vision.

Bran may not have been her true brother, born of the same loins, but he may as well have been, and her heart begged to go back to him, to pull him to her chest and stroke his hair and whisper words of comfort just like her own uncles did when she was grieving.

He needed his brothers and sisters, his mother and father and his family. He didn’t need her. As much as she wished it, Rhaenys was not his family. She was just the false dragon.

 

***

 

It was foolish to wish that with Bran awake that things would become easier. Robb would often fall asleep at his bedside, telling stories and simply sitting with Bran while he grieved the loss of his legs. Word spread across the north quickly, and with that came the requests for his presence.

Robb had denied the first few, sending trusted men in his place, but it would not last forever, so when the request came from a holdfast two days ride away for the acting Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he could not refuse.

Jon would remain in Winterfell with Rhaenys and the boys, while Robb travelled with Hallis Mollen and Theon to the keep. It would take no longer than a week, but she still wondered what it would be like.

She had not been away from him since they wed and it worried her, like she was sure it worried him.

Grey Wind was joining him and she gave the wolf a quick stroke between his ears. He was so big now, reaching her waist. If he was to jump up, he would surely be able to place his paws on her shoulders.

Behind the wolf stood her husband, dressed in heavy furs and with a face like stone. She rose from where she knelt and threw her arms around Robb with a fierceness that surprised herself. On her tiptoes, she was nearly his height and she pressed her face into the side of his neck, savoring the feel of his arms around her.

“Be safe,” Rhaenys said, leaning back so she could see his face and kissed him lightly upon the lips as snow fell in the yard. His horse was already saddled and the rest of the men were positioned, but she had wanted to draw out the farewell for as long as possible.

“I will,” said replied, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear gently. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered, leaning in ever so slightly to his touch. “Promise that you will return soon,” she whispered.

A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. “I will,” Robb repeated caressing her cheek softly. All too swiftly, he pulled away.

To her right, Jon acknowledged his brother with a nod, and they grasped forearms. “I expect a proper explanation when you return, Stark,” he said solemnly. “You owe me that.”

“And you will receive one,” he said, a mirror of his father.

Rhaenys did not know what the two of them spoke of, but she knew that Jon had been present when Lady Stark had announced her suspicions and intent to ride south a fortnight ago.

Before she could even think, Robb had mounted the horse. Without a glance behind him, he rode through the gates much like all the others before him.

After staying still for a few moments, Rhaenys inhaled deeply and gathered herself. She would go see Bran. He had not been happy to hear of Robb’s impending departure, she Robb had spoken to him before he had gone.

Their farewells had been said in the sickroom where Bran remained at the urging of Maester Luwin. Rhaenys had not stayed within the room to hear the words exchanged, but Bran was wiping away tears when Robb had left.

“He’ll be back soon,” Rhaenys said, running her thumb softly along his cheek, brushing away the remnants of water.

He scowled, thumping his clenched fists hard on his thighs as he was so prone to doing as if he could jolt feeling back into his lower body. She flinched. “I know. But I wish that he did not have to go,” he said sullenly.

“As do I,” she replied. “But he must. It is his duty.”

She had not wanted to leave him, but Maester Luwin had chosen that moment to check on his legs, so he was not alone. She had gone down to the yard to say her own goodbyes, and when she returned, he had now moved.

“He’s gone now,” Rhaenys said sitting on the edge of the bed.

Bran remained silent, instead choosing to glare out the window at the flakes of snow.

“My uncle uses a wheeled chair to get around Sunspear,” she said. “I’ve written to him to ask for the plans. I’m sure that Mikken can use them to make it easier to get around.”

He did not say a thing, clenching his fists in the furs. She bit her lip hard, blinking back tears. Bran was a shadow of his former self, a ghost who still breathed. His eyes, once so carefree and innocent were haunted.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered into the dark, silent tears trickling down his cheeks. “It’s not fair.”

“I know sweetling,” she said. “I know.”

As much as she wished too, she could not stay with him. Instead, Rhaenys sat in the solar for hours, answering letters, sorting the ledgers and accounts until the sun that had been high in the sky when the last of the horses had gone from the gates was now so low that she felt that if she walked far enough west, she could touch it.

Rhaenys’ hand was cramping and no matter how much she tried to relieve the dull pain, she could not. Her shoulders ached from where she bent over the heavy wooden desk and her eyes were straining in the low candlelight when the knock came upon the door.

“Enter,” she called and rolled her neck.

It was Jon, cheeks flushed from the chill outside. “The boys want a story,” he said. “I told them you were busy but Bran insisted.”

She smiled to herself. “It’s alright, I’ll tell them a story. I need a bit of reprieve anyway.”

Jon followed her down to where the boys were waiting. Even Summer and Shaggydog were sitting patiently, which was a miracle in itself, as Shaggydog was almost always a menace.

“Rhaenys!” Bran called and Rickon echoed in kind. “Will you tell us a story?”

“I will,” she said and took a seat between then, letting Rickon rest his head upon her shoulder. “What kind of story do you two want?”

Bran crossed his arms. “Robb always tells the same boring stories. So does Old Nan.”

“She would always tell us about the Rat Cook when Robb and I were children, but Sansa hated it, so she stopped,” Jon said from where he leant against the doorway. By the look on Bran’s face, he didn’t like that tale much either.

Can you tell a new one about…” he trailed off.

“Dragons!” Rickon shouted, making them jump.

“Dragons?” she asked. It was not something that she imagined he would think about.

“The first dragons! Egg the Conqueror!” he crowed and bounced on the bed.

“Do you mean Aegon the Conqueror?” she replied.

“Not Aegon the Conqueror! Tell us about the Queen Who Never Was,” announced Bran triumphantly, like he had found the perfect tale.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Tis not a pretty story.”

“Please Rhaenys?” Bran begged with a coy expression like he was fully prepared to weasel it out of her.

“Alright,” she said and pulled them both closer. “The Queen Who Never Was had the true name of Rhaenys Targaryen- “

“Just like you!” Rickon interrupted.

“Aye,” she said. “Just like me.”

“Shut up Rickon,” Bran snapped sharply. “Keep telling the story Rhaenys.”

She cleared her throat and continued. “The eldest grandchild of King Jaehaerys Targaryen and only child of Prince Aemon, she was called the future queen by her grandmother Alysanne, but when her father died, she was passed over for succession by her grandfather.”

Rhaenys had been raised on stories about the exploits of her descendants, and had always thought the tale was terribly depressing. Princess Rhaenys had married a man over twice her age at six and ten, been passed over once more when her uncle had died. She had two children, who both died in the same year before the true test of Targaryen faith began.

Still, Bran had asked for that story, so obliged, telling them all about her life, her children and her dragon Meleys and ultimately her death.

When Rhaenys was fifty-five, the Dance of the Dragons began. Rhaenys joined the black council of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen who had been married to her late son.

Rook’s Rest, the holdfast of house Staunton called for help from Rhaenyra, so she had sent Rhaenys and her dragon to aid him. However, it had all been a trap. King Aegon II and his brother Aemond were lying in wait. It had been two dragons against one.

“Despite knowing that she could not defeat two dragons upon Meleys, Rhaenys fought hard, burning the King so badly that he was bedridden for moons and rendering his dragon Sunfyre flightless,” she said to the boys. Rickon’s eyes were drooping, but Bran was listening as raptly as ever despite the yawns that kept passing his lips. “But the dragon and its rider fell, and the armor that Rhaenys wore roasted her alive when she was caught in the flames. In the ruins of Rook’s Rest beneath the body of her beloved Meleys, Rhaenys was found, so blackened that they could not tell if it was truly her or not.”

After she finished, both Bran and Rickon were silent and she turned to see that they had both fallen asleep.

Jon, who had stood by the doorway throughout the entire tale stretched. “I can take Rickon to bed.”

She shook her head. “It’s alright, I’ll take him. I don’t mind.”

Very carefully, she scooped him up while his little head rested on her shoulders.

As she carried Rickon into his rooms Rhaenys found herself wondering about whether she would have her own children. She and Robb had been married for almost six moons and yet her belly did not swell.

Both her grandmothers struggled conceiving. Rhaegar and Doran had lost siblings in the womb and cradle. Her own mother had nearly died bringing her babes into the world. Would she be the same?

Rhaenys thought of her grandmother Rhaella. It was well known when Aerys would take her, as she would emerge the next morning bloody scratches that still wept upon her arms, a patchwork of bruises across her throat. Even though she was but a little girl, she could remember the bites and scars that would be hidden beneath her sleeves only to be revealed by her childish hands.

Yet despite the King constantly locking her in the bed chamber and raping her, Rhaella had only birthed three children that lived past the first year. Most were lost in her womb, others died within their first moon or were born without breath. 

Loreza, the mother of Doran, Oberyn and Elia suffered a similar fate. After her uncle had been born, there had been nine years of misery and lost babes to battle. Doran had told her that when her mother was born a moon early, he had been away. When he was told, he had cried, as he believed that this babe would die as well, but she clung to life.

Just like Bran.

Rhaenys pushed upon the door to Rickon’s chambers and lay him down, tucking the furs up to his chin. Despite the warmth of Winterfell, she still worried that he may get too cold in the night.

And when she went to her own bed, it was not the one in her chambers, but instead Robb’s. As she lay still in the bed, she could imagine him beside her, chest rising and falling with each breath. But when she turned, she was alone in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I'm internetless for the next week, so there will be no updates, but it will give me time to write more with less distraction, so hopefully I'll get a few chapters done so updates will be less sporadic!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this one, next chapter will have a visitor to Winterfell, feel free to guess who!


	20. THE VISITOR

Bones returned to Winterfell before her lord husband did. At the sight of the banners, Rhaenys had assumed it was Robb, returning a day early, but when she hurried to the top of the turrets, she recognized the men as those who had travelled south with Eddard Stark’s household.

The Stark banner flew high, wind whipping it around so much that she could hear the cracks of the fabric from all the way inside the keep. They surrounded a wagon, barely large enough to hold more than six men squashed together. Only two sat in it, away from a piece of burlap.

All the men wore helms and heavy cloaks so she could not tell them apart, only noting that they rode with the kind of swagger that meant that they carried news of nothing urgent.

Still, she rushed to the gates, reaching them just as the men entered. Leading the way upon a horse of dappled grey was one of Jory's men. In a wagon behind them, covered by a bloodied burlap cloth was a lump, shaped into the form of a figure. At first, she thought it was a body and her heart skipped a beat.

As she pulled back the sheet, there was a sick sense of relief. It was a wolf, but this had something she recognized.

Lady.

As the men dismounted, Rhaenys stared at the body of the direwolf. She was ever so gentle, so sweet, exactly like Sansa.

She turned to one of the guardsmen who was beside her and asked what him what had happened to the direwolf.

“It was the little girl, Arya. Her wolf bit the prince and the queen ordered for it dead. They couldn’t find hers, so the king told Lord Stark to kill Lady Sansa’s pet instead.”

 _Lady was a gentle creature,_ Rhaenys thought to herself, looking mournfully at the bones. _Sansa will be utterly devastated._

“Bury her in the lichyard,” Jon said, coming from behind her. “That’s what they do with any animals belonging to the Starks.” The driver nodded sharply.

The wagon rumbled away and Rhaenys looked at Jon behind her. His face was stony, and he reminded her suddenly of the statues in the crypt of the Starks of old. He looked like them as well, and for just a split second, she thought of Jon, carved from the same granite as his ancestor, sitting upon a throne with his sword across his knee.

Shaking her head to clear it, she glanced after the wagon. “There must have been more that happened,” Rhaenys said to him. “Nymeria wouldn’t have just bitten someone for no reason. Arya was very good at keeping her to heel.”

Jon frowned, the line between his brows was in danger of becoming permanent. “I’ll ask the other men, see if there is more to the tale.”

He left her side, and she watched as the cart stopped and the bones of Lady were unloaded. She bit the inside of her cheek. They would not have reached King’s Landing yet, but already the journey had a body count.

Wringing her hands, she followed the cart and watched as the men began to dig the hole that she was buried in. It felt wrong for the wolf to be buried with nobody to watch and she could not help but whisper a little prayer to the seven.

While she was thinking upon her gods, she also said a prayer for Lord Stark, Sansa, Arya and Lady Catelyn, all descending into the pit of vipers that was King’s Landing. Then, she said a prayer for Robb, surely to be returning soon.

It was silly of her to fret in such a way. It was not dangerous, yet she could not help it.

The worry plagued her until Robb rode through the gates the next day, looking no worse for where than we he had left the week before. He had not shaved in days and dark stubble grew around his jaw. By his side ran Grey Wind, eyes bright and yellow. At the sight of Ghost who was lurking around the entrance of the keep, Grey Wind bolted and the two of them sniffed each other with vigor.

Theon rode to the right of his lord, looking far too pleased with himself to have just been to a holdfast. _He’s probably gotten his cock wet, as per usual._ Rhaenys always saw that smug smile when he had bed one of the maid servants or when he had ventured down to Wintertown to visit the brothels.

Trying to keep herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation, Rhaenys instead focused on her husband. As he grew closer, she noticed how haggard he looked. His hair was in disarray and dark circles ringed his eyes.

She probably did not look much better. Rhaenys had resigned herself to dressing in the first gown she could find in the morning and her hair remained in a practical plait as she was far too busy to bother arranging it.

Rhaenys had not missed him to the degree she thought she would because there was simply no time to. She was in the solar skimming through the accounts and the stockpiles for winter in the mornings, receiving reports from Maester Luwin on Bran and his progress. She also had Septon Chayle teaching Rickon his letters and made sure he was doing well.

In the afternoons she would listen to the petitions of the smallfolk, offering solutions if she could and glancing at the newest steward whose name she could not remember for approval. After that was done with, Rhaenys would answer letters from holdfasts in the north and family in the south. As the sky turned from the bluest of blue into a deep purple that resembled a plum from Dorne and then finally black, she would say goodnight to Bran and Rickon before falling quite exhausted in her own bed before repeating the whole routine again.

But with Robb home, she could breathe deeply once more and the burden of being the Lady would once again be shared.

The stable hands and soldiers closed in on the party and Rhaenys moved back, letting the swarm disperse before approaching. It was in nobody’s best interest to have her jostled around by the men. So, she hung back, watching and waiting.

Robb slid from the saddle with in a single practiced move that she had seen hundreds of times before, landing on the ground with a barely audible thump and handing the horse off to the groom who hurried to his side.

They locked eyes, and in five long strides, she was in his arms. She felt safe, secure and it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she was now impossibly light. Her arms were around his shoulders and her face pressed into his neck. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, but it was pleasant one.

Finally, Robb pulled away, but the worry in his eyes remained. The space between his brows remained crinkled and Rhaenys thought to herself that he had never looked more like his brother.

She went to speak, but he opened his mouth first, words coming fast.

“Are you alright?” he asked urgently, holding her securely by the forearms and scanning her up and down, eyes darting up.

“I’m fine,” she said, confused by his apparent fear. “Why?”

“Bran and Rickon?” he did not answer her question, replying with one of his own.

“Perfectly alright. Maester Luwin is with them both,” Rhaenys said, frowning. “What’s wrong? Why are you so worried?”

 He looked up, biting his lower lip as he was wont to do in situations where worry or nerves got the best of him. “You’ll think I’m mad.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied.

He took a deep breath, leading her to the side and away from any curious ears. “I had a dream a few nights ago, and it gave me a peculiar feeling, like something was terribly wrong. At first, I thought it was silly, but as we got closer to the gates it became worse.” Rhaenys did not mean to look dubious, but by the way he tried to defend himself, she must have. “It was just a feeling deep down and I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t.”

“Do you know what caused it?” she asked, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation.

Robb shook his head helplessly. “No.”

“You needn’t fret,” Rhaenys said, reaching her hand up to caress his cheek, reassuring him. “We are all well.”

He did not seem convinced. “Jon too?”

“Jon too,” she confirmed. “He’ll be wanting to speak with you.”

“I’m well aware,” Robb said ruefully. “Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

“You owe him an explanation to it all. He’s your brother and he stayed because you asked him too,” Rhaenys chastised gently, taking his arm and walking with him into the warmth of the keep. “You can’t ignore this, it’s far too important.”

“I know, I know, and I will,” he said threading his arm around her waist, pulling her close and pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

“How was the journey?” Rhaenys asked.

“Uneventful,” Robb replied. “There were some thieves steeling cattle from the lands around the keep and they were dealt with accordingly.”

“Do wish to talk about it?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Robb did not say it as if it was not her business, instead making it seem like he had just gone through the ledgers for a week. “They fought and they died.”

She did not need to ask what had been done to cause such a thing, it was easy enough to guess based on his tone.

They walked in companionable silence and then at the sight of Grey Wind bounding after them she remembered the arrival from the day before.

As Grey Wind bumped his head into her hip, Rhaenys took a deep breath, scratching the wolf behind the ears. “There was a wagon that came from the King’s retinue,” Robb’s head whipped around, and he gazed at her with scrutiny.

“What was it?”

_Say it quickly, it’s easier than dancing around._

“Sansa’s wolf, Lady was killed.”

Robb didn’t seem to have an expression, instead it was Grey Wind who let out a high-pitched whine as if he knew exactly what they were talking about. As if he could understand that he had lost a member of his pack.

After a moments pause, he nodded. “Was she buried in the lichyard?” he asked.

“Yes,” she assured him. “Jon told the men where to bury her.”

He nodded sharply, hand absently going to his own direwolf, who sat down upon the ground suddenly. “Good.”

There was little else to say and with a chaste kiss upon her cheek, Robb turned and left, entering the keep as snow began to fall from the increasingly grey sky.

 

***

 

Robb had been having odd dreams for the past few weeks, though he was not sure what to think of them. Sometimes he would awake with the taste of blood in his mouth, other times it would be the exhilaration of a hunt, yet he would open his eyes and he had not moved from the night before, Rhaenys still secure in his arms where she had been when he fell asleep.

It had been worse when he was away from Winterfell, he had not slept properly ever since they had left. As there were very few taverns, Robb had found himself sleeping in tents or simply underneath the stars wrapped in so many layers that it was a chore to simply get them all off again. There was nothing anchoring him to the ground and Robb worried that he would sleep walk and somehow wander off into the snow.

It had taken two days each way to reach the holdfast. It belonged to a cousin of Lord Cerwyn and her husband and while they had been friendly, offering Robb a room in the keep, their problems did not necessarily require the acting Warden of the North.

They had been having problems with cattle rustlers attacking the smallfolk around the holdfast. They were rapists and thieves and Eddard Stark had taught him that such men had no honor, so Robb set his men out that night to catch them and had seen to the King’s justice.

Of the group of seven bandits, three were felled by the guardsmen. One had his head cleaved partly from his neck while a strip of flesh kept it from tumbling to the ground, the other disemboweled, letting his entrails tumble to the mud where he had fallen. The final had bled out from a wound to his thigh, calling for a healer. With a wound such as that, he died before anyone could even come close to him.

None of his men sustained heavy injuries, simple cuts, one had tripped over his greaves and missed nearly the entire scuffle.

He had offered up the watch for the survivors, just like he had been taught to, but none of them accepted.

Kneeling upon the snow, greasy and stringy hair covering their necks, they had not seemed like men at all. The furs that they wore were soaked in the fresh blood of their comrades and the darkened dried blood of the men and women they had killed to get their hands upon the cattle.

Theon had held the scabbard of his sword. Not Ice, that had gone south with his father, but another great sword that Mikken had made just in case. Robb had not yet named it, but a sword did not need a name to take a life.

In a voice that despite his nervousness remained steady and strong, Robb spoke the words that he had heard his father profess hundreds of times.

“In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Robb of House Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”

They were not the first men that he had killed, but they were the first he had executed. It was not an easy burden; his father had been right. The resistance of the flesh was challenge enough, let alone holding the sword.

None of them begged, all seemingly resigned to their fate. With a single swing he cleaved head from body, blood spurting from the stump. They walked to their graves one after another and Robb, feeling like the Stranger, assisted.

When he had returned to Winterfell, Robb spent the first few days checking the accounts and training the guards. Bran had improved enough that Maester Luwin allowed Hodor to carry him around the keep.

At first Bran had been staunchly against it claiming that it made him look weak, but in the end, he conceded and allowed himself to be scooped up.

It was easier to get around that way, and he was no longer annexed in his chambers with only Old Nan and Maester Luwin for company during the days.

Robb had been going over inventory for the coming Winter when he glanced up to see Jon slip from the Keep into the tiltyard brandishing a weapon. At the sight of him, Robb had a sinking feeling in his chest. He had still not spoken to him about the conversation in the godswood.

That would end now.

He approached him warily as the sword flashed in the sunlight with each swing.

 “You’ve been avoiding me brother,” Jon said, thrusting his sword straight through the belly of the dummy. Had it been a real man, he would have been disemboweled for sure.

Robb didn’t reply. It was true, he was avoiding Jon but not for the reasons he thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his brother, it was because he didn’t know what to say.

Driving the sword through the throat of the straw man so that it stuck there, Jon turned. “You owe me an explanation.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Robb nodded in acknowledgement. “I do.”

Jon drew the sword and straw flew from the hole. As if it was an extension to his limb, he gestured at him to start speaking.

“My mother doesn’t think that Bran fell,” saying it aloud felt strange. Each word made it seem so much more real.

“I had gathered that,” Jon said coldly.

Still, Robb persisted. “She received a letter from her sister saying that Jon Arryn had been murdered, poisoned. Lysa said it was the Lannisters who did it. Then the attack happened, and we all thought that mother might have been the target, but she said that it was Bran.”

Rubbing the flat of his blade with his thumb absently, Jon nodded, and Robb didn’t need to look at him to know that he was thinking.

“There had to be proof. Rodrik thought that the weapon it’s self would be enough, but Rhaenys wasn’t convinced and said we ought to search the tower.”

“And then you found the hair,” Jon said. “It makes sense now.”

“Aye. But if word of our suspicions makes it down to King’s Landing, father and the girls will be in terrible danger. That’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

“So, Lady Catelyn had gone south to warn them?”

“Yes.”

_And to find the truth of it all._

Jon drove the heel of his boot into the ground, fidgeting like a child again. “You should have told me earlier.”

“I know, but I swore an oath.” It felt like an excuse, repeating those words again. “I could not break it.”

He gave him a half shrug,

“Tell me about what happened to Sansa’s direwolf. Rhaenys told me you were going to investigate it.”

“There are some conflicting stories, but all the storied have something in common. Lady was killed in the place of Nymeria.”

“Do they know what for?”

“That’s where the stories muddle up,” Jon said. “Some say that the prince was defending Arya and the wolf attacked him. Others say that Nymeria was defending her from the prince.”

Robb frowned, crossing his arms across his chest. “We won’t know until Arya writes.”

“No,” Jon said ominously, “we won’t.”

Echoing in his head were his father’s words. _They are yours. You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves and if they die, you will bury them yourselves._

“We will speak of this again when we receive Arya’s letter.”

His brother gave him a long look that Robb struggled to decipher. “I gave her a sword.”

“You did what?” He should have been shocked, but he wasn’t. Arya had always been more interested in sword play than embroidery and a sword would have been the ideal present for her. “When did you do that?”

“It was my gift for her when she left,” Jon shrugged, looking as though he thought he would be chastised. “I thought I would be going to the Wall, I didn’t think I’d see her again. She named it Needle.”

Robb laughed. “A sword seems like a good gift for Arya. I take it she was delighted?”

“Oh aye, I’ve never seen her so excited, except for when she got Nymeria.”

“Did you give her any lessons?”

Jon smirked. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

They laughed themselves silly until the new steward came bustling through the doors.

“Milord!” he called loudly. “Milord! Lord Tyrion Lannister approaches the gates, he asks for entrance with the brothers of the night’s watch!”

Both of them sobered immediately. “Stay by my side,” he told Jon.

“Always.”

To the steward, Robb turned. “Fetch my wife,” he said, assuming what he hoped was a look akin to his lord father. “It seems that we have a visitor.”

 

***

 

When she finally caught up with him, Robb had on the face of the lord of Winterfell.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is Tyrion Lannister at the gates?”

“In the company of some of the men of the nights watch,” Robb replied. “He is not welcome here.”

She stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean by that?”

“I welcome the black brothers, but not a Lannister.” He said the word with such venom, more than she had heard before.

“Robb,” Rhaenys paused, not sure how to say what was needed. “We cannot be impulsive about this,” she said, grabbing his arm to stop him from moving. “If Tyrion Lannister did have something to do with Bran’s fall then there will be vengeance, but we cannot go accusing him with no proof. We welcome him, offer him shelter and food and wait to see if he slips up, though I do not predict it. He has no way of hiring the assassin that tried to kill Bran.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I cannot, in good conscience let him in my home, into our home.”

“You can,” Rhaenys said holding his hands tightly, keeping his eyes on her. “And you will. You have to. If I can sit at the same table as Robert Baratheon while he drinks and jeers after crowing victory over the bodies of my mother and brother, you can let a man who has done nothing that we can prove stay in the guest house. We have to hide our suspicions, we can’t be seen as anything other than loyal to the crown.”

“Don’t ask me to treat him as a guest,” he said.

“Robb, we have to be clever. You and I are both painfully aware of what the Lannisters are capable of, but we must be rational. The hair that you found was long and golden blonde. The ledge that Bran would have been thrown from was too high for him to push him with sufficient force.”

“I can’t be idle,” Robb said. “And I certainly will not celebrate the man who I distrust.”

“I’m not asking you too. Be courteous. He has gone to the Wall, seen the edge of Westeros while other men have never even crossed the neck. That must count for something?” he was not happy about it, Rhaenys knew enough to see that, but he was softening. “He can’t be treated as the enemy, not yet.”

He turned the words over in his head and his hand fell from the hilt of his sword. “Fine, but if he says even the slightest thing to indicate his guilt…”

“You’ll send him on his arse down to King’s Landing, I know. But if he stays here, we can watch him, keep an eye on him. Tyrion Lannister would not break the guest right to attack a boy who cannot remember anything of his fall.”

Robb was the opposite of pleased about it but did not bear steel across his knee. Instead, he kept his hand securely on the weapon like he was prepared for the Imp to draw a dagger and begin stabbing any one near him.

She stood on the right, next to the stone chair that was often used to hear the complaints of the smallfolk. Her legs shook beneath her skirts and it took all her concentration to keep her hands steady. She hoped that she looked as a maiden carved from ice, cold and aloof, but probably looked like one that was melting. Hallis Mollen shadowed her, and she could feel his stern gaze upon the back of her neck.

Her husband was dressed in heavy furs that draped around his shoulders. They must have been stifling in the heat of the room, but if they were, he did not show it. They cloak was held closed with a direwolf clasp that had been crafted with care by Mikken.

On his other side stood Jon, and beside him Theon Greyjoy. For once the kraken was serious and she praised him in her head for it. Maester Luwin stood to the side, pulling at the collar around his thin neck.

Lining the walls were guardsmen, all with sheathed weapons. They stood tall as the doors to the great hall opened.

Tyrion Lannister entered flanked by two servants on each side and four crows behind him, looking extremely misplaced in beside the red and gold of the lion.

It was a long walk to the front of the hall and with each echoing footstep, Rhaenys could see the Robb’s fist clenching further until his knuckles had turned white.

Discreetly, she reached her arm and tapped him softly, trying her best to keep him calm and rational. It would do no good for Robb to let himself be blinded by anger.

When Tyrion reached just below the dais, he inclined his head, a sign of deference.

“Lord Lannister,” Robb said in a booming voice. It made Rhaenys proud, to see the man he had become in his father’s absence, to see him sitting upon the seat of the Lord of Winterfell like a true leader.

“Lord Robb,” he replied in turn.

“I trust that your journey was pleasant?”

The Imp chuckled softly and turned behind to look at his servants. “Hellish. I would lie and tell you that it was easy, but there is little point to lying to each other, is there?”

“Little point indeed.”

“I shall get to mine. I wish to speak to your brother, if he is able.”

Robb exchanged glances with Rhaenys, who was equally as confused.

“What business do you have with my brother?”

“I’m not quite sure yet,” he said cryptically. “We will have to see.”

With a simple look from Robb, Maester Luwin hurried from the hall.

In the silence that was left in the wake of the Maester, her husband spoke again. “Lord Lannister, you, your servants and any brother of the Night’s Watch are welcome here in Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay.”

It appeared that it pained him to say it, but still Robb spoke them and with each word, tension eased from the room.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. While we wait, I have a present for your wife.” Robb stiffened as Tyrion reached into his doublet. “Don’t worry, it’s not a knife.” He said it as a jest, but nobody laughed. Instead, he pulled a letter from his pocket.

Rhaenys stepped down from the dais and closer to him and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Robb’s fingers move across to the hilt of his sword, fully prepared to pull it from the sheath.

Tyrion seemed utterly oblivious to it. He spoke loudly, even though he looked at her. “Your great uncle was overjoyed to hear of your marriage and asked if I would give this to you. Of course, I told him that I would love to.” Although his tone with joking, his face remained serious.

_Aemon Targaryen. The maester at the Wall._

Numbly, Rhaenys took the letter from his outstretched hand, noting the elegant script that matched what she could remember of her father’s writing. “Thank you,” she said, gripping it as if it was a lifeline to a family long dead, to a dynasty nearly completely obliterated.

“Much obliged, Lord Lannister,” Robb said, and she could see grudging respect forming.

“It was my pleasure,” he did a strange embellished little bob that could have been a condescending bow or a genuinely poor curtsey. Tyrion Lannister did not seem the type to curtsey, so Rhaenys decided it was mean to be a bow.

She retreated back to her place by Robb’s side, letter clutched in both hands.

The doors opened again, and in came Hodor, holding Bran in his arms and followed by Maester Luwin.

At the sound, Tyrion turned. Rhaenys had never expected to see him so surprised, not when he held the air of someone who knew all your secrets by simply glancing at you.

“So it is true, the boy lives,” the Lannister appraised Bran and Rhaenys wanted nothing more than to cross and shield him from prying eyes. “I could scarce believe it. You Starks are hard to kill.”

Robb did not rise to the bait, instead ignoring the words. “Hodor, bring my brother here.”

Hodor carried Bran across to where the old Kings of Winter once sat, sitting him down on the seat. Bran looked so small compared to the throne, hands resting upon the carved direwolves.

“You asked to see my brother,” Robb said curtly. “Here he is.”

Tyrion appraised Bran, eyes darting up and down him, lingering upon his dangling legs. “I am told that you are the quite the climber Bran. Tell me, how is it that you came to fall that day?”

“I never fall!” Bran bristled and Jon approached from behind, clasping his shoulder with a reassuring hand.

“The child does not remember anything of the fall or the climb that came before it,” Maester Luwin said.

If Tyrion Lannister had confused her before, he was even more strange at this revelation. “Curious,” he said and Rhaenys quickly looked to Robb, who appeared just as deeply in thought.

“We’ve yet to determine the circumstances of the fall,” Rhaenys said and he looked up at her, appraising her with a strange expression upon his face. “If you have any ideas, feel free to enlighten us.”

“No, none at all,” Lannister replied. “As for you Bran, I have a gift for you too.”

 _If nothing else can be said from this, let them say that Tyrion Lannister is generous,_ Rhaenys thought, as withdrew yet another sheet of paper from his doublet.

“Do you like to ride boy?” he asked.

“My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs,” said Maester Luwin, stepping forward. “He cannot sit upon a horse.”

If it was appropriate, Rhaenys was sure that he would have laughed. “Nonsense. With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”

“I’m not a cripple!” Bran insisted, and Jon squeezed his shoulder once again, offering whatever comfort he could. Still, tears had sprung to his eyes at the word.

“Then I am not a dwarf,” Tyrion replied, and a strange smile crossed his mouth. “My father will rejoice to hear it.”

Theon Greyjoy was the only one to laugh and a single withering glare from Jon shut him up.

“What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?” asked Maester Luwin, taking the sheet of paper from his hand.

“A smart horse. The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal so you must shape the horse to the rider. Teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling with no old training to be unlearned. Your saddler will provide the rest.”

“I see,” Maester Luwin said examining the paper carefully. You draw nicely my lord.” To Robb, he straightened. “Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself.”

“It came easier to me, Maester. It is not terribly unlike my own saddles.”

Bran seemed to be bouncing in his seat. “Will I truly be able to ride?” His eyes, that had dulled so much after the fall were almost as bright as they had been before.

Tyrion nodded. “You will. And I swear to you boy, on horseback you will be as tall as any of them.”

Robb bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Your kindness is much appreciated, Lord Lannister.

“Tis nothing,” he said, waving his hand idly. “I have a tender spot for cripples, bastards and broken things.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenys could see Jon jerk his head up at the words as if he had heard them before.

“You have the gratitude of the Starks and hospitality of Winterfell,” Robb replied. They were strong words, but the strongest were the ones that remained unspoken.

_If you betray this trust, we will not be nearly as courteous._

The Lannister bobbed again just as the doors burst open and little Rickon was silhouetted by the sunlight. Behind him, all four wolves flanked him, entering the hall.

They must have frightened Tyrion who had turned to see what had caused the noise, for they had grown once more and now Grey Wind, the largest of the pack was almost as big as him, if not bigger. They caught the scent of strangers and prowled towards him slowly but menacingly and if Rhaenys had not seen them grow as she did, she would be petrified too.

“The wolves do not like your scent,” Theon noted pointlessly, and Jon shot him a cold look.

They padded closer and it took her a moment to realize the danger. “Call them to you,” Rhaenys whispered to Robb, who was almost hypnotized. “You know the risks with them.”

Shaking free of the stillness that had temporarily overcome him, Robb’s voice carried through the hall. “Grey Wind,” he called, and his wolf passed by the visitor and sat by Robb’s feet, silent yet watchful.

“Ghost,” Jon’s wolf followed suit and Bran shouted for Summer too. Only Rickon had not called his direwolf, who steadily approached the Lannister.

“Rickon,” Rhaenys hissed, breaking her composure. “Call your wolf.”

He waited a little longer than he should have before he called his wolf. “Shaggy,” the youngest Stark exclaimed. “Shaggy, home.” After a final sniff, the final wolf retreated to his master and the entire room took a relived breath.

“Rooms in the guest house will be made up for you Lord Lannister,” Robb said to the stunned men. “If you are in need of anything, we will do our best to provide. In the meantime, there will be plenty of warm water for you to wash off the dirt of the road.”

The men of the night’s watch retreated with thanks, but Tyrion Lannister remained still, looking up at Rhaenys’ husband with barely concealed interest.

“My gratitude,” he replied, finally speaking. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again before we leave to return south.”

As Tyrion Lannister left the hall walking tall with his men by his side, Rhaenys’ thumb slid over the seal of the letter that remained unbroken despite being carried by the house of her enemy. 

_Perhaps he is not as similar to his family as we suspected._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit longer than usual, but I wanted to put in Tyrion's visit before the next chapter. Yet another diversion from canon. Any questions and comments are always welcomed and I'll do my best to answer!  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you all enjoyed!


	21. FALSITIES AND FORGIVENESS

The sun had long since set by the time Rhaenys broke the seal of the letter. Most of the day had been taken up by overseeing the maids making up the rooms. She tucked the letter away inside a pocket of her skirts, making sure that they were acceptable for their guests. It felt like a weight, pulling at her skirts and at the back of her mind, she worried about the contents.

The rest of her was playing the gracious hostess. The men of the Night’s Watch didn’t seem particularly demanding, not while they were used to such cramped and frigid quarters at the Wall, but she still wanted them to have welcoming chambers, even if they did not stay for long. 

It was the Lannister men who she fretted over the most. She did not trust them and put both the servants and their Lord in the furthest rooms from the great keep.

She didn’t really see much point in organizing chambers for Tyrion, as he vanished into Wintertown, probably stopping at one of the brothels as soon as Mikken received the plans for Bran’s new saddle.

Rhaenys quietly slipped away from the clamor of maids, hand brushing briefly against the letter in her pocket and took refuge in the chambers that she shared with her husband, closing the door firmly behind her. It was not that she didn’t trust the maids, but she wished for privacy to read something so deeply personal.

She lit the candles by the bed and started the fire, trying not to get soot upon her knees where she crouched. As a second thought she opened the window to air out the room. Robb was always opening it and complaining that she liked it too warm.

Biting her lip, she realized that she was stalling and steeled her nerve.

Extracting the letter from her skirts, Rhaenys took a seat on the bed, crossing her legs like she was a child in Sunspear again, reading one of the books that Doran gave her or gossiping in the fading light with Arianne.

She ran a single finger over the unbroken seal. It was plain, no three headed dragon upon the wax. Her father used to wear a ring upon his finger to create the Targaryen crest when he sent letters off from his solar. She did not know what happened to it when he died, but it appeared that Aemon did not have one either, or he simply chose to remain neutral to the realm like all the men of the Brotherhood.

Heart in her throat, she carefully pried the red wax from the paper. She did not know what to expect from her great uncle, she had never heard anything from him before.

She had never even met him. He had always been at the wall, leagues away from her home. In her childish mind, Aemon Targaryen was little more than a story that her father told her of honor and duty and what it meant to have a sense of purpose. He had become a maester when he was only nineteen, which felt terribly old to her at the time and had been sent to the Citadel when he was barely nine.

Once, when she was badgering the Kingsguard and her mother was not well after Aegon’s birth and everyone was so terribly sick of her running around and irritating them all, Rhaegar had sat her upon his lap and read out one of the letters that Aemon had sent him from the Wall.

It had been long winded and terribly dull talk about the courts and life so far North, but she had always craved the approval of her father and had perched carefully, listening to everything he said. He had sounded eloquent, words flowing like lyrics to a song.  The letter felt like it went on for an age and she had begun to nod off in his arms. It was one of the happiest memories of her father that remained untainted.

After the rebellion, Rhaenys had decided childishly that she did not want to be related to a coward that sat mired in the snow of the North while her family was slaughtered. Aemon hadn’t come to help them and so she hated him for it, promising never to write to him. In her anger, she had childishly renounced the Targaryen name, storming around the Keep, telling everyone in her path that she was now Rhaenys Martell simply out of spite.

It had taken her a long time to learn of the truth behind Robert’s Rebellion, and with that knowledge came a renewed appreciation for Aemon Targaryen who did not desert the watch. She did not love him. Not like she loved her uncles and cousins, but she respected and appreciated the dedication that he had to his duty. Still, she much preferred the sun and the spear to the dragon.

As Rhaenys grew and learned more about her family, part of her yearned to meet what was left of the Targaryens. All that she had were stories, old letters and memories.

Viserys used to play with her in the Keep. They would chase one another for hours around the dragon skulls of the throne room, leading the Kingsguard on a merry chase after the pair of them, and then once they exhausted each other, the pair of them curled up at the feet of Rhaella listening to her tell of their ancestors all the way back to Valyria.

But he was no longer in Westeros, instead Viserys was far across the Narrow Sea with his sister Daenerys. _The Beggar King_.

Very slowly, she extracted the letter, tracing the letters of her name. Aemon had not written Stark like all the other letters that she had received, but instead Rhaenys Targaryen.

Now it all felt very real, her connection to the last dragon in Westeros and it frightened her in a way that she had not been before. It was a tight feeling like she had been pulled taunt and was about to spring loose.

 

_My dearest niece,_

_It warms my heart to hear news of you. The North has never been the warmest place, especially for those with dragon blood, but I have heard from both Lord Lannister and Benjen Stark that you have taken to this place well. Stark assures me that his nephew is a kind and loyal husband and I trust his word and that of the Starks. I pray that you are happy as Lady of Winterfell and that your marriage is fruitful._

_I know well enough that I have failed you and your family. After word came to Castle Black, it was falsely claimed that you had perished along with your mother and brother. When it was rectified, I was far too ashamed of my inaction and what you must have thought of me to even considering writing. Every brother of the Night’s Watch has had their vows tested at least once. My vows have been tested three times. The destruction of our house was the hardest thing that I ever had to endure, with each letter arriving telling of defeat and death. After you were safe in Sunspear, I reasoned that it would be safer for you to be far removed from the dragon, and thus chose to leave you in the bliss of ignorance._

_You see, I am old now and blind. I have a young apprentice writing this letter for me, a boy by the name of Samwell who is sworn to secrecy about the contents. It is not well accepted for me to even write this, as when men are sworn into the watch, they are encouraged to cut all ties with their families and if my fellow brothers were aware of this, I imagine it would be heavily discouraged, but I felt it was my duty to at least contact the only family left to me._

_I still have all of the letters that your father wrote me tucked away in a small chest at the back of a cupboard and when I feel the ache of loss, I take them out. I cannot read them any longer, but even holding them alleviates the pain._

_I do not ask for your forgiveness Rhaenys. It is not something that should be granted because of one letter to an old man who should have known better. My idleness will haunt me until my death, but I ask to one day hear that you are happy and well and that the debt that is owed to you by the kingdom of Westeros is finally repaid._

_~~All my love,~~ _

_~~Your uncle,~~ _

_Maester Aemon Targaryen_

She did not cry when she finished reading, but instead traced every word with a trembling finger. There were little splatters of ink along some of the words, written with a shaky hand; the apprentice. Despite herself, she smiled. Even though it was not his hand, it was his words. Words of the only blood family that remained in Westeros to her.

Rhaenys did not have the energy to mourn what could have been and could only muster up a broken smile at the words. A broken smile to match the broken heart. His name was written in a different hand than all the other words. Maester Aemon Targaryen. Perhaps he had penned that himself despite his sight leaving him long ago.

With a shaky exhale, she folded the letter back up so that the split seal met up in the middle, not quite knowing what to do with herself.

She knew that Robb was in the great hall below, eating with the men of the Night’s Watch and perhaps even Lannister and his servants, but she after reading it, she couldn’t find the strength to rise and make herself presentable. There was little point anyway. Dinner would be half over by the time she made her way down and it would be terribly awkward to intrude now.

So, instead Rhaenys wringed her hands together like she was a little girl again as her mind darted from thought to thought, word to word. It was as if she was in Sunspear again, waiting with bated breath for Doran to deliver the news on who the king decided she was to marry.

It would not do her a kindness to sit and reminisce about what could have been.

Robb found her half an hour later sitting quietly on the bed, eyes fixed upon her lap.

She did not answer when he called her name, she did not even look up.

It was not until he took a seat beside her that Rhaenys could even bring herself to glance away from her hands. His face was deadly serious, but she could see the worry behind them.

“You missed dinner,” he said quietly, flames from the steadily burning candles dancing across his face, casting dark flickering shadows along cheeks. “Even Lannister asked where you were. I told them that you were tired and wished to retire early.”

“I couldn’t face it,” Rhaenys replied truthfully. “Not after…” she trailed off and looked down at the letter that still sat upon the furs.

He reached over and took her hand. Robb didn’t speak, he didn’t have to. The simple gesture was enough to calm her heart. When she could finally talk without her voice trembling, she turned to him.

“What did they have to say?”

“Yoren brings news from the Watch. Uncle Benjen has gone missing. He went on a ranging mission weeks ago and never returned. The brothers think that he is dead.” The light seemed to dim from a steady glow red to an erratic dance.

“Dead?”

“Several ranging parties have gone missing. The last was the man who was beheaded by father, the day we found the direwolves.”

“I’m sorry, I should have been with you.” She was selfish, choosing to languish in her own sorrow upstairs while Robb was navigating a political battle field below only to find out that his beloved uncle had vanished. Rhaenys squeezed his hand lightly.

Robb shook his head, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “He’s not dead. They all say that he is dead, but he is not,” his voice became quieter, little more than a whisper. “I can feel it.” He let go of her hand and it fell back against the bed with a barely audible thump. “I can feel it.”

_How?_ she wanted to ask. _How does he know?_ But she could not. She could not bring herself to question him. There was a reason, and she trusted her husband.

Rhaenys pushed her hair behind her ear. “What will you do?”

“There is nothing to do. I cannot ride to the wall and find him myself, as much as I may wish to,” he ran his hand through his hair. “All I can do is pray to the old gods that they may find him safe. The Seven do not venture past the wall.”

All of a sudden, she felt stifled and her breath became shallow. She did not know why she felt so panicked, but she did. “I’m going for a walk; I have to clear my head.” She stood abruptly. Robb looked like he wanted to say something, but did not, instead watching her with a wary look upon his face. She smiled softly in a futile attempt to reassure him, but it did not seem to work.

Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Rhaenys shut the door softly behind her and made her way down the stairs. She did not know where to go, all she wanted was to breath in the crisp night air and watch the snow swirl to the ground. As she passed by the Great Hall, she heard a small clatter and then a hissed curse.

Frowning, Rhaenys peeked through the doors. Upon the dais, Tyrion Lannister was picking up a pitcher from the floor, and from the look of the spotless grey stone, where it rolled, it had been empty when it fell. Upon the high table was a golden goblet with the Lannister seal that he had surely brought with him all the way from Casterly Rock.

She turned to see if anyone was behind her and stepped through the doors. “Lord Lannister? What is it that you are doing?”

At the sound of her voice echoing through the hall, he looked up surprised. His face was surprisingly pale, which she had not expected. She had learned that when one dove too far into his cups, they became very red faced, much like Robert Baratheon. Tyrion Lannister remained the same as always, perhaps a little bit more disheveled than when he had entered the hall the first time.

“Ah, Lady Stark, you’ve caught me red handed. I desired another cup of the wine before I returned to my chambers. It’s Arbor Gold, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” she said, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders and making the long walk up to the front of the hall. “Leftover from the King’s visit.”

“A miracle in itself,” he said with a crooked smile. “Considering how much Robert and Cersei drink.”

She did not reply.

Unperturbed, Tyrion continued. “You seem rather subdued. Have you read the letter then?” despite her silence, he smiled and Rhaenys looked away. She did not like the way that he looked at her, as if he knew all of her secrets with a single glance. “I take it that you have. Was it truly that depressing?”

“He is the only family that I have left. Of course it was difficult.” She tightened the shawl once more as a shiver ran down her spine.

“Family is rarely easy,” he said, sipping from his cup. “I should know.”

“Tell me about him. You’ve met him, what does he look like?”

“He’s blind. Perhaps his eyes were once violet, but now they are now milky white and as cloudy as sky before the snows. He has no hair anymore, but perhaps it was like your fathers, silver and bright.”

“You talk in maybes, Lord Lannister,” she scowled despite herself. “I cannot make my own opinion if even you are uncertain about him.”

“So I am,” he replied. “Let me tell you one thing. Your great uncle is a fascinating man,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine around with a lax wrist and then sipping from his goblet. “Perhaps even cleverer than I am.”

“I can only judge his written words,” she said sharply. “And it is far more difficult to learn of people when they write and have time to mull over their thoughts. It’s much easier to dissect one when they speak directly.”

“One day you may travel further North to speak with him and I will not have to present you with maybes. I’m sure the Night’s Watch will welcome the Lady of Winterfell.”

“I’m sure the Night’s Watch would welcome a lady in general.”

Tyrion let out a belly laugh that echoed through the hall. “You’ve a quick tongue Lady Stark.”

Rhaenys nodded her head, hiding the self satisfied smile that threatened to cross her lips. “As do you Lord Tyrion.”

“One needs such a thing to survive in this world,” Tyrion said cryptically. “Cripples, bastards and broken things. Where do you stand?”

“I’m dragonspawn. Perhaps you should add that to your mantra.”

“There aren’t enough of you left. Westeros has an abundance of the rest. This castle alone has its fair share.”

She raised her brow. “Meaning?”

“Your husband’s bastard brother did not go to the watch. Why not?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“I’m sure I will before I return to King’s Landing.”

“Why not Casterly Rock. You are the heir, aren’t you?”

At that, a cynical laugh slipped from his lips. “My father hates me with a passion and can barely stand to be in the same kingdom, let alone the same keep. I am the heir to shit and piss. He would die of shame to see me as Lord Lannister.”

“Wouldn’t he already be dead?”

“Fair point, but the reply still stands. Casterly Rock is surely not where I am wanted and besides, I significantly prefer the beds in King’s Landing to those in Lannisport. They are much warmer.”

“Everywhere in the south is warmer than here. Especially Dorne.”

“I’ve never been to Dorne, but I know from experience that the wine is utterly exquisite,” he took another sip, grimacing a little bit to illustrate his point. “I do believe that my mother and your grandmother were quite close before their deaths. In fact, your own mother came to Casterly Rock once with prince Oberyn. It was when I was little more than babe though. My father offered me to her, but your grandmother refused. I wonder why?”

“I couldn’t imagine. But instead my mother got Rhaegar and look what happened there.”

Tyrion tilted his head. “As a child I used to find dragons fascinating. Feel free to laugh at the delusions of my youth, but I thought that I could perhaps ride one and soar through the skies,” he seemed like he was imagining such a thing, staring into the flames of the torches that lined the halls in a rosy glow. “Like I told your good brother, even a dwarf could ride as tall as a king upon a horse. One can ride even higher upon a dragon.”

“They are long dead, they died fighting each other at the whims of their masters.”

“Like all men. We are ordered to go to war by our Lords, to mutilate and kill and then die ourselves for people that may never leave the comforts of their castles.”

She raised a brow. “But you are a Lord.”

“And it is the only thing that has kept me alive.” He did not elaborate on it, and she didn’t ask him to. She knew plenty of the dwarf babes that were smothered in their beds by distraught mothers and fathers or sold to a band of mummers before they could even walk.

Against all odds, Rhaenys had felt herself relaxing in the presence of the Lannister. He seemed to be just as out of place in his family as she was in hers. In the quiet, Rhaenys heard one of the direwolves howl and Tyrion tensed.

 “I’m afraid that I must retreat, Lady Stark. The hour of the wolf is upon us and I have no desire to find myself caught between them as I was earlier.”

She inclined her head respectfully. “It was a pleasure speaking with you my lord.”

“Indeed,” he said with a strange look in his mismatched eyes. “I wish you goodnight.”

 

***

 

Robb did not like Tyrion Lannister, but he could at the very least respect him. It was a tenuous respect, one in danger of shattering at any minute at the rate he drank his way through their stores and staggered into Wintertown when he thought that nobody was looking, but it was a respect, nonetheless.

He managed to avoid breaking words with him, staying far away from the guest house and the hall, instead eating meals with Rhaenys in the solar or simply going to the kitchens when he could find the time during the day. After the first night, there was little point in gathering the household for a feast again.

Jon had been set to task, training the new guardsmen. Robb had tried to convince Theon to help him, but he was much happier drinking and whoring and bathing in the hot springs whenever he felt like it.

Theon was one of his closest friends, but of late Robb was finding him irksome. He had always been quick to laugh but shied from any responsibility offered to him.

By the gods, Robb had tried to give him some semblance of authority, tasking him to find Bran’s would be assassin, to assist with the training of the new guards, even to simply sit with him in the solar while he answered letters offering his own advice, but Theon stood fast, acting like a boy, like Rickon when he was denied sweets after a meal.

Theon was older than him and an heir to the Iron Islands in his own right, but Robb feared that he was not capable of ruling in the way that he would have to at Pyke.

All he could do was feast, fuck and fight for more.

It was mid-morning and Robb watched as Theon drew his sword from his scabbard to face Jon as the rest of the household guards formed a square around them.

Robb had trained with them all morning before telling the men to watch a true battle between his brothers. Live steel, armor and first blood if it came to that, but it was easier to just have them disarm each other with having to worry about their bruised egos. Theon was bigger and stronger, but Jon was quicker and better. It would be an evenly matched bout.

“Begin,” Robb said, and the two swords met with a clang. He moved out of the way and stood by the wall, observing them.

They fought with live steel, sharp blades that could draw blood with the smallest flick.

“I’ve never been one for sparring.” Robb turned in surprise. Coming from near the stables was Tyrion Lannister wrapped in so many furs that he could be mistaken for a very small, very fat bear. “I suppose I’ve not got the stature for it, not unless I spar with a child.”

“Lord Lannister,” Robb said, stepping forward from where he leaned.

“Lord Stark,” he said. “I have not had a chance to properly thank you for your hospitality. For a time I thought that we would be sent down the Kingsroad with no wine or ale.”

“I would have sent you on your way had my wife not been there,” Robb said truthfully as he watched Jon parry Theon’s blade with a simple step to the side and a flick of his wrist.

Lannister chuckled to himself. “A miracle that you didn’t even with her there,” he replied. “I could see the malice in your eyes. And certainly in the eyes of your wolf. Tis a strange pet to have.”

“Grey Wind is not a pet,” Robb said harshly.

“No,” he replied. “Even a blind man could see that.”

“Direwolves can tear a man from limb to limb and rip out a throat,” Robb mused. “I have seen it.”

“Have you? I thought the pups well trained.”

“They protect their masters.”

He did not reply, instead choosing to watch as Jon slapped Theon on the back of his thigh using the flat of his blade. Across the yard, Grey Wind and Ghost were chasing each other in circles, playing with not a care in the world.

“I asked you wife, but she did not have an answer for me. Why did your bastard brother stay? The men of the Night’s Watch were prepared to ride North with him and yet when we left, I did not see him. It was not until Benjen Stark informed me that he was to stay that I realized he was not to join us.”

“My brother’s thoughts are his own,” Robb replied. “I asked him to stay. What happened in his mind is not for me to say.”

“That is still not an answer Lord.”

“You shall have to ask my brother.”

“But will he have a reply, or will he be as elusive as the rest of you?”

Robb glanced down at his feet, where the four-day old snow had turned from crisp white to a dirty brown that soaked his boots through to the skin. “My brother is his own man. If he has an answer for you, it will be his own choice to give it or not.”

Theon had attacked once more, but it was sloppy, and Jon disarmed him with a simple hit to his hand, sending his sword clattering from his hand and onto the hardened ground.

Lannister mused for a moment before patting himself down. “Aye, Starks have always known their own minds. Now, if you will excuse me lordling. My belly thinks that my throat is cut.”

An interesting turn of phrase to use as parting words, but before Robb could say anything, he turned and left, pausing only to stare thoughtfully at Rhaenys who was hurrying to the Maester’s tower.

Robb glanced at Theon and Jon, who had both picked up their swords and began sparring once more. He wanted to join them for one more bout, but alas, he was needed in the solar to worry about the state of affairs in the rest of the North.

The sun sunk low in the sky and the fires were lit around the keep, banishing the shadows.

Rhaenys joined him for a time, answering letters of her own from her uncle Doran and many of her cousins, Robb liked her company, sitting in silence with one another while the fire crackled merrily behind them. The sound of paper rustling  and the soft scratching of ink quills upon the parchment was comforting but all too quickly she left him with a soft kiss upon his cheek to tuck in Rickon and Bran and tell them a bedtime story.

It was where he sat, reading through the letters from Lord Manderly and Lady Mormont and Lord Karstark and Lord Umber each asking and telling of different things. More trade from Dorne, more lumber for ships, a decent match for a son or daughter and more wildling forays south of the wall.

But there was not letter from the south. Nothing from his mother or father, even Sansa and Arya had not sent anything. The last he had heard from anyone south of the neck was of Lady’s death.

Burying his head in his hands, Robb sighed heavily. Lording was not as easy as he had thought as a boy. He rose from the old desk and rubbed his brow, trying to force away the tension of the day.

He wished to speak with Jon, to find out what Tyrion Lannister wanted from him and to ask for his own advice.

His brother would be in the godswood with Ghost, praying or simply thinking while his wolf hunted for a meal.

As he made his way down, Grey Wind followed, trotting behind at his heels.

Jon was still, standing and staring at the bleeding face carved into the tree. “I’m praying for uncle Benjen,” he said.

“Do you mind if I join?”

He shook his head and Robb stepped closer, watching as Grey Wind shot into the trees, probably catching the scent of his brother. They stayed silent for a time, long enough that a howl cut through the night.

“I feel guilty,” Jon said. “Even if I had gone to the wall, I couldn’t have stopped it because I’m would have been a recruit, but I could’ve looked for him later.”

“He’s alive. You know it and I know it. It matters not what the brothers think.”

“Even Lord Tyrion thinks that he is dead.”

“I don’t hold much with the opinion of a southern lord,” he replied. “He doesn’t know the North. Not like we do. We have been raised on the old gods and tales of the Long Night.”

“Aye,” he conceded. “You have a point.”

Ghost bounded through the snow; muzzle bloody. He nudged Jon’s side with his head and his red eyes watched as Grey Wind followed. Robb’s own wolf was still clean, he had not caught anything tonight.

“What is your measure of the Lannister?” Robb broke the silence thoughtfully. “I have yet to make a proper opinion of him.” He dug his feet into the snow, kicking up the powder while his brother pondered the question.

Jon stayed quiet for a moment. “I don’t dislike him.”

“No?”

“He is a prickly, but honest. He spoke with me about the Night’s Watch earlier, what it is like now. I did not want to believe it, but one glance at the brothers here shows that he is telling the truth. They are broken men, miserable and tired.”

“It is in ruin?”

“Yes. Tyrion told me that the brothers starve, the wall has fallen into disrepair and the only men manning it are criminals. Rapists, murderers, thieves and traitors to the crown,” he sighed. “Father and uncle Benjen told me that it was noble, and surely it used to be, but it can’t be anymore with such men in high standing.”

“You don’t deserve to be numbered with such men. You are my brother and you are a Stark.”

Jon looked away. “I am a bastard.”

“You are my brother,” Robb reached over and grasped his shoulder. “Bastard or not. You have the blood of the first men and the blood of kings. Don’t think of yourself to harshly Jon, I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost you from Winterfell too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another long chapter which is kind of why it took so long. Also I rewrote the letter from Maester Aemon seven times because I wasn't satisfied. I hope that this was worth the wait! If there are any glaring mistakes let me know and I will fix them best I can!  
> If you have any questions or comments, I always try to reply within a few days so feel free to ask away!


	22. THE COMING STORM

Tyrion had left Winterfell after a week of drinking his way through their stores, but a week was much longer than they had both expected him to stay. He claimed that he wished to see Mikken complete the saddle for Bran, which could have been partially true, but Rhaenys suspected that he truly wanted to sample the pleasures of Wintertown for a bit longer. The Kingsroad was long and Tyrion Lannister did not seem the type to go without.

In truth, she did not mind him. He could be abrasive at times, but he was good company and clever, offering up quips from his seat whenever he heard something that caught his attention.

Strangely enough, he seemed to form a kinship with Jon, sitting upon the sides of the paddock with a cup of wine in his hands, watching as he trained the men. Whenever she looked over Jon would have a ghost of a smile on his lips and sometimes, he would even be trying to smother his laughter.

It made her happy, to see her good brother so content. Ever since Robb convinced him to stay, he’d been carrying around a weight and when word came of Benjen, Jon grew even more dour. Now, he seemed to perk up a bit. He was much less the sullen boy she had met when she had first come North and it was wonderful to see, even if it was in part to Tyrion Lannister.

Even Robb was friendlier to him, listening to his ribald jests with the occasional smile. He didn’t like him, but he could at least tolerate him. It was still bizarre to see a wolf and a lion in the same room, let alone the same keep but stranger things had happened in Winterfell in the past year. She had married Robb for one.

The direwolves were still as hostile as ever, but still they stayed away from Tyrion, with only a snarl and bearing of teeth to show how truly malevolent they were towards him.

The Lannister slipped into a position at Winterfell. It was almost like he did not want to leave, or at least he never made any movements towards wanting to. _Though,_ Rhaenys supposed, _when one is so obviously different from the rest of those in the room, it must be a comfort to easily blend in with the rest._

While Tyrion might have been content to remain with a women in one hand and a cup of wine in the other, the men of the Night’s Watch were not. They were eager to get travel down south and Yoren, the leader was restless, wandering the halls through the halls in the night and tapping his foot restlessly like Rickon did when he was bored of his lessons.

He must have gone to Tyrion sometime in the night, for the next day while Robb and Rhaenys were quietly breaking their fast in the Great Hall, he announced that they would continue to King’s Landing early the next morning.

“I’m afraid, my Lord,” Tyrion announced with some unnecessary grandeur. He stood before the throne of winter in a similar position from when he arrived. When he was quite sure that he had everyone’s attention, he continued. “I’m afraid that I must leave in the morn. My dearest sister and brother will fear that I joined the watch, and we certainly can’t have that. My men and myself will take up one more day and then ride for King’s Landing.”

“Would you care for an additional escort?” Robb asked, rising from the bench. His face was schooled into the features of a Lord. His meal and the conversation they were having about the increased trade between Dorne and the North forgotten. “The roads can be treacherous before you pass the neck. Many a good horse and rider has been lost to ice upon the ground. Especially now that winter is coming.”

Tyrion chuckled. “I have been waiting for you to say that, but no, we will not need anyone else. The journey will be quicker with less men and as hospitable as you have been it will be much easier to return on our own.”

“Understood,” Rhaenys said, laying a hand upon Robb’s arm. “Will you be needing provisions?”

“Just enough to see us past Greywater Watch. There is nothing else that cannot be bought at an inn,” he said. “We have already eaten our way through enough of your stores my lady.”

The meal was abandoned. Rhaenys snatched up the remaining roll from her plate and hurried off to make plans for supplies to get them into the Riverlands. Nothing perishable and enough to last for at least a fortnight should the road be treacherous.

It was a busy evening that night, and when Rhaenys went to bed, she could barely manage remove her dress and utter three words to Robb before collapsing onto the furs.

The household gathered in the courtyard the next morning beneath the steel grey sky. Nobody looked particularly sad to see him go, but there was a heavy feeling hovering in the air. It was as if they were surrounded in smoke, but there was no source of the fire.

“Tis a good thing that he leaves today,” Jon murmured from behind her. “There’s a storm on is way.”

“How do you know that Snow?” Theon asked, amused. “Can you taste it like Old Nan?” Rhaenys was sure that he was making a face at Jon, just like the ones that Arya would make at Sansa behind her back when they were stuck embroidering together.

An indignant huff from Jon. “No,” he snapped. “Look up. It’s obvious even to a lackwit like yourself.”

The sound of furs moving, and a soft thud alerted her to the pair of them jostling. “Would you two stop it?” she hissed, keeping her face as serene as possible while still sounding somewhat authoritative. “You are bickering like children.”

Theon continued undeterred. “I’ll make a bet. If there’s a storm in the next fortnight, I’ll give you five stags.”

Rhaenys didn’t give Jon to say anything, instead whirling around. “Answer that Jon and I’ll have your balls.” Theon chuckled like quietly with a smug grin on his face until she directed her ire at her him. “As for you Greyjoy, don’t think that I won’t castrate you with a blunted knife,” Theon scowled, and she faced forward once again. “What must the black brothers and Lord Lannister think of us?” she said to herself.

Beside her, Robb had a barely concealed grin on his face as both of them shuffled and glanced at their feet with muttered apologies. She knew that Theon was sulking and probably had a facetious comment hovering on his lips, but she could not be bothered to turn and engage him.

Tyrion strode from the great hall, followed by his servants. “Lord Stark, Lady Stark,” he said to Robb, who sobered immediately and to her. “Thank you for your hospitality. My men and I are grateful.”

“It was our pleasure Lord Lannister. We wish you an easy journey.”

Tyrion looked like he wished to say something, probably quite rude but stayed quiet, as the rest of the party approached.

After cursory farewells from the black brothers -several of whom let their gazes linger far too long upon her chest than was appropriate- the Lion of Lannister climbed the steps up to his horse and threw his leg over the saddle.

“Lord Stark,” Tyrion called when he was sat tall upon his horse. There was a waterskin filled with ale at his hip. She had been there when he filled it up, glancing briefly at Robb as if he was to scold him like a child, but her husband did nothing.

As he pulled at the reins of his horse to it so that he faced them, Robb spoke.  “Lord Lannister,” he said, watching him with weary eyes.

Tyrion turned to look at her, appraising her. It did not make her as uncomfortable as it used to, but still an uneasy feeling ran down her spine, like someone had poured ice water down the back of her neck. “Lady Stark.”

“Lord Lannister.”

Without another word, he turned his horse and followed by the rest of the men, rode out of the gates.

In the days following their departure, the keep seemed to slow down. The sky continued to darken with the promise of an impending storm and many of the smallfolk flocked to Wintertown where they would have easier access to food and shelter.

Rhaenys ventured through the town once upon her horse as they gathered. Jon with her along with two other guards. Despite no other attempt on Bran’s life, Robb still worried for them all. There were always two guards outside of Bran’s chambers, no matter where he was.

The snow began to fall, flakes swirling through along the wind as she rode. At first, they were soft, landing gently in her hair, on the collar of her cloak. So small and so delicate that Rhaenys wondered why they were all so worried in the first place.

There had yet to be a true Northern snowfall since she had arrived at Winterfell. The kind that had all running for shelter. Men could fight each other, but they could not fight the elements.

Rhaenys turned in her saddle to look at Jon whose forehead creased at the sight of the falling snow. “We ought to go back,” he said. “The snows will only get worse.”

“How bad?” she asked, beginning to dread the answer.

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure. Sometimes they are weak, barely enough to settle. Then sometimes the doors rattle in and windows shatter inward with the force of the wind.”

“We shall have to pray that it is the former,” she replied as smallfolk hurried into the inns and homes along the road. Rhaenys spurred the yet nameless horse and through the gates she went as the wind began to whip her hair from its braid in a frenzy.

Rhaenys dismounted and Jon followed. The groomsmen took the horses from her quickly and even as they hurried from the stables to the great hall, the wind grew even fiercer.

The guardsmen rushed about the yard, carrying about sacks of grain and hay for the horses. The snow was coming thicker and faster. Her exposed hands began to turn red with cold and she covered them with her cloak. _How quickly the weather turned in the North,_ she thought to herself as she ducked her head. _Even while it is still summer._

The storm was not weak or feeble. It took minutes for the snow to begin falling sharply, stinging her skin as she hurried inside. Each flake turned to a knife, or a needle and stabbed hard.

Pushing open the door

Grey Wind was the first to greet her, nosing at her skirts. He grew larger every day, now reaching her waist. She dropped down to her knees and stroked his massive head, letting herself smile. He may have looked frightening, but Rhaenys would never fear anything from him.

“Rhae!” she turned. Robb was entering through the doors nearest the dais, shaking snow from his hair.

“Robb!”

He helped Rhaenys to her feet, dusting the grey fur from the skirts. “I feared that you were caught in the storm.”

“No,” she replied. “It came on so suddenly, but we were close to the gates, we did not need to seek shelter.”

“Your first true storm,” he said with a short laugh. “You are truly a Stark now love.”

“Though I cannot say that I was excited for it,” Rhaenys sighed and Robb took her hand pulling her close to him, pressing her close to his chest. “It’s never been this cold, not even when I first arrived here.” She could feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

He pushed her wet hair away from her face, kissing her softly upon the lips. “We will weather this storm, as all Starks have done,” she must have appeared dubious still, for he kissed her again. “This storm and any others that are sent to us.” This kiss was longer, more passionate and despite herself she found herself wanting more.

It ended all too soon and she could not help her wistfulness. “What were you doing outside anyway?” she asked, brushing the stray snowflakes that remained on his cloak.

“Helping Hallis and the others move the stores. Once a grain silo collapsed upon two weeks of food when I was younger, and all the wheat blew away in the wind. What stayed was frozen solid and a poor substitute. It’s safer to move it to the great hall.”

“Aye, safer,” she said, voice growing distant. She had yet to know a true Northern Winter and if that was what she was looking forwards to, then she had every right to fret.

“You ought to change Rhae,” he said gently. “All these damp clothes will give you a chill.”

She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Her hair flew into her eyes and Robb brushed it away, once more tucking the strands behind her ear. Worries seemed to come easier lately, and they settled firmly in her mind. “I will, shall I see you at dinner?”

“I’ll try, but I’ve plenty to worry about tonight without this storm. With it, I’m twice as busy.”

“At least try not to work too hard,” she said reaching up and stroking his cheek. “You’ll do yourself no favors pushing too much.”

He only smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll try,” he repeated again. With a soft smile, he turned and strode away.

Rhaenys did not see her husband until late when all of the candles were lit and the howling of the wind drowned everything else out. She could barely hear herself think. The noise was nothing she had heard before and it momentarily made her think of her aunt. Daenerys Stormborn was what they called her, for she was birthed on the night one of the most vicious tempests.

Once again, she found her mind drifting and shook her head to banish the thought. It would do her no good to think of her Targaryen relatives.

Rhaenys knelt at the heart with furs wrapped around her shoulders and lit a fire as the door to the chambers opened.

It was Robb, looking more somber than earlier. The light reflected off his hair and the shadows beneath his eyes even more pronounced. He looked much older than his seventeen years. _Soon to be eighteen,_ she reminded herself. His nameday was soon.

“What is it?” she asked, rising. There were remnants of soot upon her knees, blackening the edge of her shift.

“A man rode through the storm,” Robb said quietly as he shut the door behind him. “He brought word of my mother. She reached King’s Landing without incident and has met with father. She wrote this on the way back and sent one of father’s men to take it here,” he stood by the hearth and stared into the crackling embers.

“What else has happened?” Rhaenys asked, an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of her stomach. “She would not have sent a rider through the dark and in this storm for no reason other than to tell you she is well.”

Robb held out his hand. The letter was between his fingers, folded thrice. He turned slowly, unfurling it again so she could see. The script was curling and elegant, she had gazed at it many times upon the ledgers. It was certainly Lady Catelyn’s, but it was not written in the common tongue. She looked up at him for an answer and did not even have to speak for him to answer.

“It’s written in code.”

“Really?” she could not help her incredulous tone, as the only times she had heard of code being used during war time.

“Aye. Maester Luwin translated it for me. I suppose father never thought that it was necessary for me to learn the codes after the rebellion,” he turned around and she wanted to stand and hold him close. He looked so worried, so betrayed. “The dagger once belonged to Petyr Baelish,” she recognized the name, but barely. He was not part of the Targaryen court and the name Baelish was not one that she knew. It was not Northern. “But he lost it at a tourney betting.”

Rhaenys was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Who did he lose it to?”

Robb exhaled harshly and she could see him chewing upon his lower lip. It was a habit that she had seen time and time again when he was worrying about something. “He said that he lost it to Tyrion Lannister.”

Silence. Even the wind stopped howling as if it understood the repercussions of such a thing. As for Rhaenys, she froze, letting the words rush over her like a wave.

It took a moment for her to regain her wits, but when she did, everything spilled from her lips quickly. “That-that can’t be true, it doesn’t make any sense! He was here a fortnight ago,” she rose from where she sat and crossed behind the chair, gripping the top of the armrests so tightly that her knuckled became white. “If he truly ordered the attack, he would have finished it.”

“Yet it is true,” he let out a long, weary breath. 

“Even your father?” Rhaenys began chewing the inside of her cheek, still tender from when Tyrion had arrived in Winterfell and she was not quite sure what would happen. It was becoming a habit now, and not one she wanted to keep up. “He also believes it is true?” Eddard Stark was one of the most honorable men in Westeros, if he thought that the knife was Tyrion's, the seven help him. 

“He does,” Robb still held the letter tightly and the parchment began to crumple. “They gave me the Lordship of Winterfell, trusted me to protect my brothers and I sheltered him, I gave him food and wine. The man who wanted my brother dead and I helped him.”

“There must be something more, something else. It doesn’t make sense.” She was repeating herself now. “Your mother thought it was Jaime Lannister,” she was grasping, but it did not seem possible that Tyrion could have ordered the attack from the wall, that if he had wanted Bran dead, he didn’t finish the job. “Perhaps he gave the dagger to his brother.”

Robb did not speak, but she could see the worry and the fear and behind it all, the anger. He dropped down onto the bed, burying his head in his hands. Curly strands of hair poked out from between his fingers.

“I have given shelter to the enemy,” he said hoarsely. “I swore to protect my family and I have let him stay here.”

“But you didn’t know Robb,” she assured him. “You didn’t know, and we still don’t know.” She reached out her hand and ran her hand over his unshaven cheek. The stubble scratched against her skin, a reassuring feeling that she associated with comfort since their marriage.

“Tell me this,” he began, looking up. The fire was reflected in his eyes. “What am I to do? Do I send men south after him and order him arrested? Do I remain silent? By the gods Rhae, something does not feel right about this.”

Rhaenys was at a loss. Most of the time there were books and the words of maesters to call upon. If such things had been written in the history of Westeros, they were not easy to find. “What can you do?”

He exhaled slowly. “Nothing. I could write to the King, but he is the brother of the queen. We will get no justice from Robert Baratheon. If we chase him down, we won’t reach him until they are long past the Neck. I can’t arrest a man simply on words.”

“Men have been imprisoned and executed for less than words,” she murmured softly. _Brandon and Rickard Stark, both killed by the mad king. Brandon for demanding that his sister be returned and Rickard for asking that his son be freed._ “We both know that.”

“It matters not,” he said, straightening. The shadows that had been beneath his eyes, the darkness fled, and he rose like a king. “We wait. We wait until we receive word and my mother returns. Letters can be intercepted; the code could have been misinterpreted. We wait.”

“I feel so useless waiting,” Rhaenys whispered, pulling her furs tighter around her shoulders as if to banish the cold aching feeling that came with the news. “Is there nothing else to do?”

Robb stood up, holding the paper. “In the letter, Maester Luwin said that mother wants me to place a watch upon the Kingsroad and father wishes to enforce Moat Cailin with one hundred men from Lord Tallhart and Lord Glover each. To prepare.”

“To prepare? Are they planning for war?”

“So it would seem, but father is still the Hand of the King. I will strengthen the North using their instructions but pray that it doesn’t come to that.” Robb’s voice was steady and strong. As he spoke, he dropped the letter into the edge of the fire. “We must be ready.”

The paper curled as flames licked at the edges. As the fire obscured the ink, leaving behind only ash in its wake, Robb wrapped his arms around Rhaenys, keeping her close to his chest while the winds roared outside.

Jon was right. There was a storm coming, but not the one they had prepared for and this one could very well become far more deadly.

 

***

 

Robb began the letters to Lord Tallhart and Lord Glover the next day, rewriting them three times in fear that they did not sound lordly enough. Rhaenys read each one, making small corrections, changing one word for another.

With the storm still raging outside, there was little they could do but wait. Bran and Rickon were excused from their lessons for the day and both played in the great hall with Shaggydog and Summer. Doran had sent the plans to Maester Luwin for Bran’s wheeled chair and Rhaenys sat with him along with two of the blacksmiths to make the necessary adjustments from sand to snow.

As for the saddle, Mikken finished it far quicker than anyone had expected. With the revelations about Tyrion, Robb was dubious to tell Bran that it was done but decided that his mistrust of Lannister shouldn’t affect his brother. First, they would test it and if it was safe, then they would let him try.

Besides, Joseth, the new master of the horse had already trained a filly for Bran, a clever creature that he already adored.

So, when the snow finally stopped after slamming into Winterfell for nearly two days, Robb finally told Bran that the saddle had been completed. Even though he was trying to hide it, his excitement was palpable. Hodor carried him down to the yard and passed him over to his brothers.

Jon hoisted him into the saddle and Robb strapped him in. His legs were still limp and strapping him in kept him stable, while the overlarge back of the saddle kept him upright. Very slowly, Bran reached out to the young horse, Dancer. She had been trained specifically for the purpose of listening to both Bran’s voice and the pull of the reins.

It did not take long for him to get the hang of it. For the first few days Jon would lead him around the yard holding the reins ever so carefully, trying not to pull her. It was difficult for Bran to feel steady and he bounced up and down with every step of the horse.

As Bran’s confidence was built up, Jon let him go and Dancer trotted slowly. Jon stayed close behind him, ready to stop the horse should she bolt. However, Bran became less and less wary and urged the horse to go quicker. Soon he was galloping around in circles, cheering and shouting at Robb to watch him go.

“Look! Robb, Jon, Rhaenys look!” he crowed with a smile stretching across his face. “I can ride again!”

It took a fortnight for him to feel bold enough to ride into the wolfswood, for the horse to truly obey even the smallest flick of the reins.

Bran wanted just Robb, Jon and Rhaenys to go with him, but Hallis Mollen and Maester Luwin insisted that more of the guard go too. With four guardsmen in heavy ring mail, Robb with a sword at his hip and Theon with a bow and quiver of arrows on his back, they were protected enough.

“So, Bran,” she began as she climbed up onto the saddle, arranging her skirts to keep her warm and covered. “If we are to go riding again, I must give my horse a name. I’ve still not thought of one.” Really, Rhaenys was waiting for Bran to help her with it. When he fell, naming her horse dropped from her priorities and she simply had so little time to lounge around thinking of names. Besides, Bran was terribly creative.

“You’ve still not named her?”

“We were going to do it together,” she replied. “And I’m not very good at naming things. I had a cat called Balerion once, but I stole that from a dragon. Anyway, I don’t think Balerion is a very good name for a horse. Really, I can’t see any dragon names fitting her.”

“Where’s your cat now?” he questioned.

A bittersweet smile crossed her lips. She could remember speaking about her cat with Robb when they had first wed, but she had not thought of him in some time. “I don’t know. Dead, or in King’s Landing. This was near seventeen years ago, before you were born.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenys reached across the gyre to pat his arm. “No matter, shall we come up with some names?”

He pondered for a minute as he stroked the mane of his own horse. “Call her Shadow.”

Rhaenys ran her hand over the mare. “Shadow,” she repeated. “Shadow is a good name.”

“Aye it is,” Jon said and pulled himself into the saddle of his own horse. “You almost took longer than Bran to name the poor girl though.”

“It’s a better name than Jaime Lannister’s horse,” Theon said, climbing upon his own gelding. “Honor is not what I would name such a creature. Especially if one was without it like the Kingslayer.”

Rhaenys met Robb’s serious gaze. He had yet to speak to anyone about Tyrion Lannister save for Maester Luwin. He was planning to speak with Jon first, but it was difficult finding anywhere private after the storm, there were so many people wondering the keep, then after the skies had cleared there was too much to do.

Forcing on a smile, Rhaenys pulled the reins of Shadow. “It’s a good name Bran, thank you.”

There were faint flakes of snow falling as the portcullis opened. “Are you ready?” Robb asked.

Swallowing, Bran nodded. It was a sharp bob and the worry was evident on his face, but he bore it well.

“Let’s ride, then.”

Robb led the way, Bran just behind him, hand open Dancer’s neck. Jon was beside her, riding a grey stallion that he had been training for moons. Then came Theon and the four guards. Joseth brought up the rear with Maester Luwin upon a donkey.

Summer, Grey Wind and Ghost darted to the front of the line, probably ready to hunt for a more substantial meal than rabbits. They had not been for a proper jaunt through the wolfswood in weeks and they would enjoy it as much as the rest of them.

As they passed through Wintertown, the few villagers that remained after the storm knelt at the sight of their lord. Robb gave them each a solemn nod and Rhaenys smiled serenely.

She could see the tension melting from Bran’s shoulders with each step of the horse, worry flitting away in the wind.

Theon spurred his horse past her and rode beside Robb and muttered something that made his face turn to stone.

“Not where my brother can hear, Theon,” he said, shooting him a withering look. Bran glanced away, staring at expanse of the Wolfswood, far ahead of them.

It had never looked more beautiful, with light snow capping the trees and frost crisp on the ground. The sky was clear and the sun so brightly that it hurt to look at it. _I’m happy,_ Rhaenys realized with a start.  _Despite the impending threat of war and being far away from Dorne, I am happy._

“You’re doing well, Bran,” said Robb from ahead of her. Theon had dropped back to where he was before, smiling, yet it did not reach his eyes.

“I want to go faster.”

“As you will,” Robb smiled and spurred his horse with a nudge of his heels. His horse slid into a trot. Bran followed, snapping the reins with enough enthusiasm that Rhaenys could hear the crack. The direwolves darted out in front, beating the horses by far. Grey Wind became a blur, Ghost blended in with the snow and Summer seemed to stay close to his master, always looking behind to make sure Bran was following.

Beside her, Jon encouraged his stallion and Rhaenys followed suit with Shadow until all four of them were riding freely towards the wolfswood. A glance behind her showed that the rest of the party were straggling. Even Greyjoy upon his gelding was slower, the cynical smile still on his face.

Robb was far ahead, but Bran was closing the gap. Rhaenys was in competition with Jon. Had she been on her sandsteed, she would have defeated them all, but Shadow was a quick horse. Not as quick as Dancer, nor as obedient, but still, she glided through the air until Rhaenys had nosed past Jon.

Ahead, Bran had finally reached Robb. “I can _ride!_ ” he cheered. “Look, I can ride!”

“I’d race you, but I fear you’d win,” Robb said, slowing his horse. The wolves vanished into the woods and not even the underbrush was rustling. The rush of it all was wearing off, and he seemed to gain dark circles as she watched.

Rhaenys pushed forward to where Robb was. Keeping her voice low, she spoke. “Talk to Jon about the letter. It’s the right time. I’ll keep Bran occupied.”

With a short nod, Robb turned the horse back to his brother, pausing to lean over and whisper something.

“Come on Bran,” Rhaenys chirped. She was far too perky and thought that he would notice, but Bran was so elated about being able to ride he followed her.

“Can you tell me more about King’s Landing?” he asked.

Rhaenys paused, mulling over the words. “What would you like to know?”

Behind them, she could hear Robb’s low tones, but could not decipher the words, which meant Bran could not either. He was still too young to know of Lannister treachery, despite it concerning him. Robb was his brother, Catelyn his mother and they would decide when they could tell him of the instances of his fall. Rhaenys was his good sister. Nothing more or less.

“Tell me about the knights, the Kingsguard!”

She exhaled shakily. “When I was a girl, there were different men than now. Ser Gerold Hightower was the Lord Commander before Barristan Selmy. They called him the White Bull.”

“Father told me about him, he died in Dorne at the tower with Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne. Tell me about Ser Arthur, he was the best fighter father ever saw.”

“He wielded the sword Dawn, passed down from generation to generation. There was a legend that it was forged from the very heart of a fallen star. It was pale as snow and seemed to glow,” she recalled, thinking back to the few times that he had shown it to her. Her mother was always around, Elia taking care to make sure that Rhaenys didn’t end up impaling herself upon it.

“Like Ice was passed to father?” Bran asked.

“Not quite. Whoever wielded Dawn was called the Sword of the Morning. Not any man with the Dayne blood could have it, they had to prove themselves worthy as both a knight and a warrior.”

“Who has it now?”

“Nobody. It was sent back to Starfall, the seat of house Dayne after Ser Arthur died. His sister Ashara threw herself from the tower not long after-“ Rhaenys cut herself off. Bran did not need to know such things, but it was too late, his curiosity was piqued.

“Why?” he asked, looking up at her with wide eyes. “And don’t tell me I’m too young to know. I’m eleven now, and Robb was betrothed to you when he was even younger.”

Rhaenys wasn’t quite sure what to tell him. She had heard many stories. A broken heart over the loss of her brother, a broken heart over the loss of a child dead in the womb. A broken heart over the loss of a child, taken away by Eddard Stark. She looked behind to Jon, who was in deep conversation with Robb.

There were rumors that Ashara had borne a bastard, a babe who had vanished from Starfall. Some said that it was stillborn, others said that it was the child of a Stark, Brandon or Eddard.

Jon did not know who his mother was and there was little point bringing it up. Rhaenys settled on the answer she knew was definitely true.

“After the loss of her brother, she became despondent. Nobody ever knew why, but she threw herself from the tallest tower. They never found her body.”

Bran went silent and she cursed herself. She shouldn’t have said anything at all. He slowed until he was beside Robb. “Can we go back now?” he asked in a small voice. “I’m cold.”

 “We need to find the wolves,” Robb said, leaning forwards and peering around the woods. “Can you stand to go a bit longer?”

Bran nodded miserably. Jon urged his stallion to Rhaenys with a serious look on his face. They were going off the Kingsroad and into the woods, dark and deadly as they were. The direwolves had been found in these very woods six moons ago with their dead mother.

Lady Catelyn had taken it as an omen, a sign and despite herself, Rhaenys began thinking that she was right.

Theon and the other guardsmen were falling steadily behind, the sound of hoofbeats and inappropriate jests growing faint until all the she could hear was the chirping of birds and beneath that, the sound of a rushing river.

“We went fishing here,” Jon said quietly to her as they reached the edge of the stream. “Robb, Bran, Jory and I. Didn’t catch much, but nobody really cared. It was the warmest I’ve ever been, and we all swam through the water. Robb and Bran are half Tully, half fish.”

“We’ll have to cross,” Robb shouted over the rush. “I’ll go first.”

He dismounted briskly and took his horse by the reins, leading it over the slippery rocks to the other side, then tying him to the tree by the side. Jon and Rhaenys followed suit as Robb came back across for Bran.

“Are you sure you want to cross on foot?” Jon asked with a skeptical look. “Your skirts will be heavy, you could slip.”

She shrugged and pulled at them. “I’ve navigated these kinds of dresses since I was a girl. They are already heavy, and we won’t be much longer.”

As Rhaenys took Shadow by the reins, she stepped into the water. It was cold, much colder than she expected. The kind of cold that spread from her toes all the way up to the top of her head. Her boots had little traction on the smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream and it took all her concentration to stay steady. In her spare hand she bunched her fur cloak to keep it from trailing in the water.

It came up to her waist and the light grey dress was closer to black by the time she emerged to the other side. She was shivering and did her best to squeeze water from the bottom of the skirts.

A howl cut through the quiet and they all looked up. “Summer,” Bran said. It was like he was bound to the wolf in a strange way, like he could see through his eyes. It was a mad thing to think, like the rumors that the old Targaryen dragons were bound to their own riders.

Another howl joined in and Robb smiled wryly. “Grey Wind too. They’ve made a kill.”

Jon remounted. “Ghost will be with them too. We should go get them.”

“Aye,” Robb said. “Wait here, Jon and I will fetch them.”

Bran flinched like he was wounded. “I want to go with you.”

“They’ll be found faster if Jon and I go.” It made sense. Bran was still navigating the use of his new saddle and Rhaenys did not know the wolfswood as well as they did.

“Stay with Bran,” Robb turned to her. “We won’t be long, and Theon and the others will catch up.” He kissed her softly and turned, climbing back into the saddle. With his brother at his heels, they both disappeared into the trees.

Rhaenys sat upon a rock dusted with snow. She would not dry, not in this cold, but she could try and stop her skirts from being sopping. They would be easier to navigate if they were simply damp.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Bran said, and she frowned, looking behind her at him, still seated tall upon his horse.

“Why ever are you sorry?”

He shrugged, pulling at the strap across his chest. “I just am.”

She rose and stepped over a fallen sapling to reach him. “You don’t need to be sorry-“

Rustling in the bushes cut her off and Rhaenys looked behind her. _Typical Theon, choosing the most inopportune time to appear._

The men who stepped out from the tree line were not the men from Winterfell. She had never seen them before, dressed in greasy furs and ragged tunics.

“Good day to you,” Bran began. His voice trembled, and the men appraised them both. She was painfully aware of the lack of weapons. Robb and Jon both had long swords and daggers strapped to their belts, but Bran and Rhaenys had nothing.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a hulking rock. It looked heavy, but should they not leave peacefully, it would do as a weapon.

“All alone, are you?” the largest man, taller than Robb by a head, said. By the look of his sallow cheeks, he was hungry. “Lost in the wolfswood? It’s not a safe place for a boy and a woman.”

She lay a hand upon Bran’s shaking hand. “We aren’t alone. We’re just waiting for someone.”

“My brothers and our guard,” he blurted, and the man raised what little was left of his eyebrows. A crack came from behind them and Rhaenys turned to see two more step through the woods. They were outnumbered, even if Robb and Jon returned quickly.

“Your guard, is it?” Another man spoke from the same side spoke in low rasping tones as if he had not used his voice in weeks, perhaps even longer. “And what would they be guarding, little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?”

“Pretty,” said another, a woman. She held a spear and for just a moment, Rhaenys was reminded of Obara, wielding her own weapon in the sand outside of Sunspear. The resemblance stopped there, for while Obara was not the most beautiful of her cousins, she held a sort of harsh beauty. This woman looked so dirty and bedraggled that it was impossible to tell what she looked like beneath a layer of mud and something that was suspiciously brownish red. 

“Let’s have a look,” the first man said. He waded through the stream, the other three following him. They were surrounded and Rhaenys was not upon her horse.

It was a split-second choice that she made, lunging for the rock. As she hauled it from the frozen ground with one hand, the six of them flinched back. It would do little more than cause a broken nose, but it would deter them for a moment. Holding it in one hand, she glared at them all.

“If you know what is good for you, you will leave and continue on your way. There is nothing here for you,” she threatened, backing up into Bran’s horse that whinnied softly.

“Oh I disagree my lady,” the large man said, hand dropping to his belt where a shining dagger was tucked. “I disagree indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good old fashioned cliffhanger to end!  
> Hope you all enjoyed! Let me know what you think in the comments!


	23. RED AS WINE

The rock was heavy in her hand. Very slowly, Rhaenys backed closer to Bran. It was her worry that they would disarm her or pull him from the horse. The straps would hold him upright well enough, but if they noticed, it would rid them of a quick escape.

Bran’s house was skittish and whinnied. She did not have to look behind to him to know that he was panicking.

The large man withdrew the dagger from his belt. It was shining in the faint light. Bases on the cleanliness of the blade, it had yet to see battle. He was far too ragged and dirty to own such a thing without picking at his fingernails with it. The only conclusion that Rhaenys could come to was that he had stolen it. She could only hope that the unlucky fellow escaped with their life.

“The pin,” he said, a malicious smile on his face. “Give it over and we’ll let you go.” With his empty hand, he reached out.

“We’ll take the horses too,” said the other woman. She was shorter than the first, no taller than Rhaenys, but the way that she moved, the way her own knife was clutched in her hand was more frightening. She looked like she would enjoy using the jagged thing upon their flesh and tearing strips from them slowly. “Get down boy.”

It took all of Rhaenys’ nerve to steel her voice to stop the trembling, but she did. “You will not take the horses. Instead, you will leave this place and be grateful that you still have your lives.”

One of the men heaved, and it took her a moment to realize that he was laughing at her. “Who are you to threaten such a thing, girl? That goes for you too, little lord.”

The rock in her hand grew heavier as she backed so closely to Bran, she could _feel_ the frantic breaths that he took. If she could somehow distract them and climb upon Shadow, they would outride them in moments, but one of them had crossed behind, standing mere paces away from her. They were surrounded on all sides, and heavily outnumbered.

One of them stopped advancing. “Look, Stiv,” the tall woman said, pointing with her spear. “He’s strapped in, he can’t get down.”

“I have ways to deal with straps.” He said, brandishing the dagger. Stiv, the large man took a small step forward again. “What are you lordling? Some sort of cripple?”

“I’m not a cripple! I’m Brandon Stark of Winterfell and you will leave this place now or I’ll see you all dead!” His voice echoed through the clearing and all Rhaenys wanted was for Robb and Jon to come riding through the trees at the sound of it. Even Theon would be welcomed. By giving away his identity, Rhaenys was sure that they were in even more danger than before.

The short woman cackled in such a way that it sent shivers down her spine. “A Stark, the boy says. A Stark?”

“The boy is a Stark true enough,” the one with a wheezing voice hissed. “Only a Stark would be foolish enough to threaten where a smarter man would beg.”

“Cut his little cock and stuff it in his mouth,” the short woman snickered. “That should shut him up.”

“You will not touch him,” Rhaenys promised, fire in her belly. She sounded like Oberyn, like Arianne. Like a dragon. “Leave, and this never happened. Leave now.”

They seemed to ignore her words and settled to argue among themselves. “You are as stupid as you are ugly Hali,” the tall woman spat, lowering her spear just a bit. “The boy is worth nothing dead, but alive… gods be damned, think what Mance would give to have Benjen Stark’s own blood as a hostage.”

“Mance be damned,” swore one of the other men. “You want to go back there, Osha? More fool you. Think the white walkers will care if you have a hostage? We kill him and go.”

“What about the girl?” asked the rasping man. His eyes were hungry, and it was then that she noticed his cloak. His and the leader, Stiv wore the same. Black. He was once a man of the Watch, but no longer. “What do we do with her?”

“Tell us your name girl, we won’t hurt you. All we want is the horse,” the tall woman; Osha said as if she were placating a child no older than Bran.

“She’s not Northern blood. She’s too dark,” wheezed another, hand caressing the tip of his axe. “She’s southern born. We can ransom her like the boy.”

Stiv stopped advancing and appraised her again in such a way that made her skin crawl. “There were rumors that the oldest Stark boy married. I heard the old man mention it once or twice,” Stiv began creeping towards her again, close enough that she could smell the stench of long dead flesh and unwashed furs. “They said that he married a Dornish girl.”

“A creature such as that in the North,” cackled one. “She’ll freeze to death soon enough. Starks are known for being colder than ice.”

“Perhaps young Stark married well. A Dornish whore will keep him warm at night,” Stiv said, now so close that she could see his bloodshot eyes and see the sweat upon his brow. “She’ll keep the rest of the keep warm too.”

“No,” Rhaenys hissed, flexing her finger of the rough stone. “He didn’t marry a Dornish whore, he married a Targaryen bitch.”

With the final word, she lifted the stone and slammed it into the side of his head with all her strength. There was a sickening squelch as it scraped across his face. Stiv shrieked as it pulled the skin from his cheek and stumbled away from her. He dropped the dagger onto the dirt ground and Rhaenys through down the bloody rock and snatched it up, holding it with the blade out, ready to jab at anyone who came close.

Osha levelled her spear once again, looking for a command, but the leader was too busy blubbering and cursing her in words too blasphemous to even consider thinking about. The rest of the ragged group seemed to be equally as confused, not expecting a woman and a crippled boy to put up much of a fight.

“Kill them!” the other deserter shouted. “Kill them now!”

It was futile to move towards Shadow, but she still did. “Bran, ride!” There was only one man by him, and he only held a dagger. Still, the man slashed at his thighs and the leather straps keeping him in place split in two. Blood spilled the wound like water, droplets landing on the snow, redder than wine.

Bran did not cry out, but the presence of the man so close disorientated Dancer, who would not move, despite Bran’s urging.

Two of the other men trudged closer to her, wary of the dagger that she held. Bran was her priority; she could not let him get hurt. Surely Theon and the rest of the guardsmen were close, if she could stall them.

“Drop the knife or I’ll cut the boy in two,” snarled Hali, the short woman. “Do it. I’ll kill him.”

Bran had no escape, if the man had not been holding Dancer’s reins he could get away, but without the use of his legs, he was helpless, and she was surrounded. She could not fight them, not like that.

She dropped the knife.

Blood streamed from between Stiv’s fingers and finally, he pulled his hand away. The skin along the top of his cheekbone, over his eye was gone, leaving behind a gaping mass of muscle and ragged flesh. For a fleeting moment, she thought of Sandor Clegane and his fire branded face, but this was much worse. It was like staring at a savaged beast.

“I’ll make you scream bitch,” he cursed at her, coming closer like a beast might move towards its prey. He picked the dagger up from where she threw it and twisted it between his fingers. “Just you wait-“

“Put down your steel and I promise that you shall have a quick and painless death.”

 _Robb!_ There he was, upon his horse. His longsword was no longer in its sheath and instead freed, held in his hand. Behind upon his own stallion was Jon. He had also pulled out his own weapon. There was an elk tied to the back of the horse, blood dripped from its body. She had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Both of them were far away, far enough that Robb had to shout for his words to carry over the sound of the stream.

“The brothers,” hissed Osha.

Before she knew what was happening, Stiv had pulled her to him as a shield and held the dagger to her throat, pushing hard against her skin. His mangled face was pressed against hers and she could feel the warm blood soak the collar of her cloak. It made her gag, the overwhelming scent and sensation of torn flesh squelching against her cheek. _Never let down your guard_ , Oberyn’s words drifted through her mind as if he was beside her. _Never let anyone get behind you with a weapon._ She had broken the cardinal rule, one of the things that he had drilled into her head as a girl.

“Not a step closer or I’ll open her up,” with a nod, Hali hurried to Bran, to drag him from his horse or simply make sure he would not ride off. “You are outnumbered boy, throw down your weapons and we might let you live.” He dug the knife deeper into her throat and her breathing became shallow.

It was deadly sharp, so honed that even the smallest pressure cut her. A bead of blood spilled down her throat and Stiv gripped her hair with his free hand, yanking her head back further as if to show off the wound. Her scalp stung with the movement and her neck throbbed.

“Don’t be a fool, lads,” Osha said, spear pointed directly at Robb. “Off the horses, throw down the weapons. We’ll thank you kindly for the mounts and the venison and we can all be on our way.” Robb did not flinch, instead turning his blade slightly so that the sun reflected from it and they could see how deadly it was. “He’ll kill her before you can even move,” Osha added as an afterthought, as if she was worried for their lives.

Jon whistled and the trees parted. Ghost padded out of the undergrowth, Summer at his side. She could not see Grey Wind anywhere near them. Perhaps he had not been found, or perhaps he was lurking in the bushes.

“I’m afraid that you are the ones outnumbered,”  Robb said, his voice carrying over the rush of the stream. “Let them go and I’ll be merciful.”

“Wolves,” Hali breathed, letting go of Dancer’s reins.

“Direwolves,” said Bran, staring with wide eyes.

“Dogs,” said the gaunt deserter with a sneer. “I’m told there is nothing like a wolfskin cloak to warm a man by night.”

Robb urged his horse closer and the six backed away. Now the battlefield was even. Two direwolves were more than a match to four men, no matter where Grey Wind was. “Let them go.”

“You see what she did to me?” Stiv snarled, turning his head, letting Robb see the full extent of his ghastly wounds. Even Jon sucked in a breath. “I’ll let the boy go free, but I’ll kill her slowly.” To illustrate his point, he pushed harder into her throat and Rhaenys whimpered. It stung like the seven hells and with each shallow breath that she took, the cut grew deeper and wider. Blood dripped down from the blade and onto the snow, red as wine.

At the sight of her blood, Robb tensed. She could see it in his eyes, in the way that his hand flexed around the sword and the way he swallowed hard.

“Come any closer, lord and I’ll slit her throat,” Stiv threatened, pressing harder until the cut grew even wider.

A rustling came from the woods beside them and before Rhaenys was quite sure what was happened Grey Wind lunged across the back of Stiv, clamping upon the back of his shoulder with his deadly sharp teeth. The knife was ripped from her throat and warm blood sprayed across the side of her cheek. Without him holding her upright, Rhaenys dropped to her knees, palms scraping painfully against the ground.

Still knelt, she turned to see both wolf and man slam into the ground, mud and blood flying every which way. Her hand moved to her neck, trying to gauge how badly she had been cut. The wound was not any longer that her little finger but still blood seeped from it, down the collar of her dress. Her cheek was wet and so was the .

It was what Robb and Jon were waiting for, as they both charged down the bank upon their horses, swords drawn. One of the men ran at them with his axe in fist. He was shouting like a madman and swung his weapon back to catch Robb across the chest, but instead, the blade of Jon’s sword caught him along the face in full force with a horrific crunch. As the man fell away, fragments of bone and brain flew into the undergrowth. 

Next to her, Grey Wind released Stiv and instead moved onto Hali who was trying in vain to mount Shadow and somehow escape the carnage, but she was not quicker than the wolf. His teeth locked around her ragged cloak and she was dragged back, defenseless. She screamed as Grey Wind pounced. With one savage bite, he tore open her abdomen and ripped out her entrails, pulling them from her belly like they were ropes.

Robb was engaging the tall woman Osha, who jabbed at him with the spear. There was enough length that she could stay far enough away from him without fearing his blade.

“Bitch!”

Rhaenys turned to see one of the men advancing on her, knife in hand. He swatted at her and she ducked under his outstretched arm. Her skirts were bulky and hindered her movements, nothing like she was used to, but she could make do.

He swung again, and once more she ducked beneath him; stance wide. Oberyn had trained her as a child and she was not as strong as she had been, but he ingrained the basics into her mind, basics that she would not soon forget.

With the hilt of the blade, he hit her across the cheek, and she let out a weak cry, barely keeping her balance as she stumbled away.

Rhaenys had not fought in such a way for moons and her muscles screamed bloody murder in protest. Every move made her ache, twisting herself into different positions to stay as far as possible from the knife. Rhaenys was unarmed and painfully aware of the weapon that her opponent wielded opposite her. The man she was facing was from the Night’s Watch, the deserter who stared at her in that unsettling way.

He was not trained, but his swipes were vicious enough to draw blood. Still, Rhaenys knew the only chance that she had lay in getting the weapon off him. Without any way to fight back, she was defenseless and one lucky hit could kill her in moments.

So after a particularly wayward strike, she caught his wrist, pulling him close enough that she could smell the stink of desperation upon his clothes. He was stronger, bigger and heavier, but she was quicker and better.

Twisting his arm she thrust the dagger up and into his chest beneath the ribs and into his innards. He gasped sharply, like she punctured his lungs and fell forwards into her, so she was holding up his body. He was heavy and the sudden weight upon her sent Rhaenys stumbling. With a fierce shove, he fell away and crumpled to the ground, life spilling from the fatal wound.

Rhaenys was disorientated and exhausted. She had never killed a man before, never had the need to and yet, it was her hands that had stabbed him, no quarter given, no mercy offered.

She killed someone.

Around her lay bodies. Grey Wind was still savaging Hali, Summer and Ghost had torn a man in two. Jon was off his horse and had thrust his sword into the belly of another, cutting his throat to end his suffering. Robb was still upon his horse, focused on Osha and her spear. She bled from a gash upon her upper arm and had fallen at some point, scrambling away from Robb on her hands and knees.

Hands trembling and eyes clouded, Rhaenys reached down and pulled the dagger from the deserter’s chest, no longer pristine and clean. It took a considerable effort, more than she thought that it had to stab him.

“No!”

It was Bran’s shout that caught her attention. Despite being brutally mangled, Stiv was still alive and in all the commotion, he had pulled Bran from the horse and dragged him into the water. It was not a knife that he held to his throat, but an axe, pulled from the hand of his dead comrade. The bloodied edge was pressed to the underside of Bran’s chin.

“Call them off or the cripple boy dies now!” he shouted. He was so bloodied she did not know how he still lived, but he did, and Bran was doing his best to hide his terror. “Call the wolves off!”

“Grey Wind, Summer, to me,” Robb called. Grey Wind prowled slowly, while Summer remained still, eyes upon Bran and the man behind him.

Jon did not have to speak for Ghost to lope over to him, staring warily at Osha.

“Starks,” he murmured so quietly that she strained to hear him. “Bloody Starks.” The blade beneath Bran’s jaw shook in his trembling hand. “Osha! Kill the wolves and get the swords.”

Osha shook her head, pushing herself up from where she had crawled, using the spear as leverage to haul herself from the ground. “Kill them yourself,” she announced shakily, eyes darting to the body of Hali and the guts that were strewn across the snow. “I’m not going anywhere near those monsters.”

He was silent for a minute and Rhaenys used that time to slowly limp over to where Jon stood, sword still dripping red. His eyes darted over, appraising her wounds quickly and determining that they were non-life threatening.

“You boy,” he called to Robb. “You have a name?”

Slowly, he spoke. “I am Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell.”

“This here is your brother?” Stiv gestured with the axe, digging it into Bran’s throat. He grimaced and his face twisted in pain.

“Yes.”

“You want him alive; you do as I say. Off the horse.”

Slowly, Robb dismounted, and moved to where Jon and Rhaenys were, brushing her hand with his lightly in a strangely comforting way. His sword was unsheathed in the other hand and both him and Jon were primed to attack.

“Kill the wolves.”

Robb did not move, but he tensed. Jon was the one who showed no emotion, simply holding still like a statue in the crypt.

“One of you, kill the wolves or I’ll kill the cripple.” To prove how serious he was, Stiv wrenched Bran’s head back and he cried out in pain. “Kill the wolves!” he shouted.

“No!” Bran shouted and he sobbed when Stiv twisted his hair.

Then came the strangled gasp as an arrow protruded from Stiv’s chest. The axe fell from his hand and plunged into the stream. He gargled on his own blood and then dropped to his knees, clutching futilely at his chest like he was trying to close the wound.

Bran tumbled with a splash while Stiv swayed and landed in the water. The blood mixed with the stream and washed away. Jon rushed to Bran, hoisting him out of the water and onto the dry land.

Rhaenys looked up to see the four Stark guardsmen emerging from the trees and Theon with longbow in hand, cocky smirk ever present. It fell a little bit at the sight of the slaughter before him, for Summer was feasting on Hali’s entrails and Grey Wind prowled with his muzzle still bloodied.

Behind Greyjoy, Maester Luwin’s grey robes appeared too. He blanched, but steeled himself and at the sight of Bran, shivering from cold and with a cut through his breeches, he began wade through the stream with the agility of a younger man.

“Mercy, mercy m’lord,” stammered Osha, dropping the spear to the ground. “Mercy.” She raised her hands up in surrender and fell to her knees. The rest of the guardsmen crossed the stream too with their weapons unsheathed. Perhaps they were worried that more would appear from the woods. They surrounded Osha and looked to Robb for an indication of what to do with her.

But he did not go to them. Instead he turned to Rhaenys, whose heart was still pounding frantically, and hands trembled. She sat down upon the ground hard, hand finding her throat. Robb dropped to his knees before her, reaching down and tearing a strip from the hem of her dress to staunch the bleeding.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice, holding the fabric up to her neck.

Rhaenys couldn’t trust herself to speak, so instead she simply nodded once, covering his hand with her shaking one, keeping pressure on her wound.

There was blood on her abdomen, along her chest from the deserter that she stabbed. Killed. She could have pretended it was her own blood and not that of a dead man. That must have been what Robb thought, for he pressed his hand against it, looking for anything that could have caused so much.

He moved his palm around, but there was no source of the blood. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No,” she whispered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.” She was bruised and ached but there was no other injury of consequence, nothing that could kill her. “I’m alive, I’m fine.” Tears began to well in her eyes. “I’m fine,” she repeated to herself and Rhaenys could feel panic rising and filling every inch of her.

He pulled her into an embrace, stroking the back of her head rhythmically. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” his voice was quiet, so soft that she could barely hear him. ”You’re safe now, don’t worry, you’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m so sorry.”

‘I’m fine,” she said.

Robb pulled away, watching her with weary eyes. “Stay here,” he said and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Robb pushed the escaped strands of hair behind her ear before standing and striding to where Maester Luwin was tending to Bran.

Still trembling, Rhaenys closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was anywhere but there. Sunspear, wandering through the corridors with a blood orange in her hand. The Water Gardens, sitting with her feet in the fountains while the sun dried her skin. Winterfell, as the fire crackled and she lay beneath the furs, warm and content. Anywhere but the wolfswood, where blood still caked her hands and the cold enveloped her entire being.

 

***

 

It was a scene from one of his nightmares. His wife with a knife to her throat and then his brother with an axe to his. And both times, he could do nothing to help them, nothing to save them. It was Grey Wind and Theon who had done what he could not, and Robb had never felt like such a failure.

Bran was so excited that morning. The happiest he’d been in such a long time. Since the fall. Once they had begun riding, it had been like flying and for once, he had forgotten all of the worries, the stresses of being the Lord of Winterfell. As the horse sped to the trees, weight after weight tumbled from his shoulders.

Then they had stopped, and the doubt returned. The only person aware of the letter he received from his parents other than Maester Luwin was Rhaenys. Jon would have to know. He trusted his brother with his life. Trusted his thoughts and council.

Slowing his horse to ride behind Bran and Rhaenys, Robb reached out. “A letter came a few nights ago.”

Jon knew exactly what was going on, without even having to be told. He slowed his own stallion. “What did it say?”

“It was from my mother and father. They know who the dagger belonged to. The one the assassin used to try and kill Bran. Do not say anything or react, but it they believe that it once belonged to Tyrion Lannister.”

To his credit, Jon did not say anything for a long time, mulling the information over in his head. When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. “Who said that?”

“The Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. It once belonged to him, and he lost it in a tourney to the Lannister.”

Jon looked forward to where their brother was carefree and smiling in his saddle, the saddle given to him by Tyrion. He looked so happy, like a boy once more.

“Why would he want Bran dead?”

Robb sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe. If he wanted Bran dead, he would have done something when we sheltered him. He would not have given him the ability to ride.”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Jon said in agreement. “Who is this Baelish?”

“I think that he knew mother from when she was a girl in Riverrun,” Robb replied. “But I cannot be sure. Yet, both mother and father them seem to trust him, or at least his word.”

Jon bit his lip. “If Tyrion did order Bran’s death, how would he have done it? If he was surrounded by men of the Night’s Watch all the way up to the wall and back again, there was no way to send a man down. Nobody recognized the man. He was no brother to the watch, and he was not a Lannister servant,” he said. “So where did he come from? Your mother said that she thought the person who pushed Bran was Jaime Lannister not his brother.”

“Are you suggesting that the assassin was sent from the King’s party?” Robb frowned. He hated that it made sense, but it meant more and more uncertainty about who to trust.

“It makes more sense than Tyrion sending the assassin. Besides,” he began with a half-smile, “he doesn’t seem the type to lose a bet.”

“Then why did Baelish say that he lost the dagger to him?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, turning in the saddle to look at him. “But when your mother returns, we may know more. Until then, we can only speculate.”

“Aye. Well, the messenger said that she was about to leave King’s Landing when he was sent and that was a fortnight or so ago. She’ll be in the North by now, probably just past Moat Cailin.”

It was then that Bran had ridden close, asking if they could return to the keep and yet, they had not turned back. They had kept going.

Perhaps it was his fault. Robb had left both Bran and Rhaenys alone and reaped the consequences.

Now, standing at the site of the massacre, he felt only grim determination. Against all odds, the only dead were the attackers littered about. Rhaenys was sat quietly on the ground, wound covered and Bran was being tended to by Maester Luwin. Other than the cut on his thigh, he did not seem any worse for wear, even though he had been held tightly when arrow burst through the man’s chest.  

Robb wanted to shout at Theon for taking such a risk with his brother. He might have missed the shot, maybe he would have even hit Bran instead. For all he knew, the man could have been wearing a breastplate.

Yet, Robb could not find the strength to shout at him. He was grateful, but if Robb was angry at anyone, it was himself.

“A dead enemy is a thing of beauty,” Theon announced from where he stood on the bank behind a row of arrows impaled in the dirt.

Robb ignored him and instead hurried to where Bran was being examined. “Are you alright?”

“He cut my leg,” Bran said, looking to where Maester Luwin was examining the wound. “but I couldn’t feel it.”

With a ruffle of his hair, Robb stood and marched to where the guardsmen were gathered, pale and nervous. All of the direwolves were milling around. Summer was feasting upon the guts of one of the attackers, while the other two, both with bloody maws prowled around the carnage.

“Where were you?” he demanded to them all. He must have looked like his father, grim as the stranger himself, as none of them would meet his gaze, instead looking at the ground and to one another with sheepish expressions. “I was sure that you were right behind us.”

“We were,” insisted the youngest of the group. His name was Quent and when Robb trained with them in the yard, he was oft laughing and smiling in the back. “We were following m’lord, only first we were waiting for Maester Luwin and his ass, begging your pardons, and then, as it were…” he trailed off, glancing over to where Theon was pulling his arrows from the ground viciously.

“I spied a turkey,” he said. “How was I to know that you’d leave the boy alone?”

Theon was like a brother to him, yet he was unable to understand that his actions had consequences and at that moment, there was nothing Robb wanted more than to truly show him the consequences.

“Lord,” one of the guardsmen called. “Two of them wear the black.”

The one who held Bran hostage lay dead in the water. The left side of his face was mangled, and blood still spilled from the wound Grey Wind had made on his shoulder. The other was uncomfortably close to where Rhaenys sat. The one she killed. “Deserters from the Night’s Watch,” he said. “That’s six this year. They must have been fools to come so close to Winterfell.”

“Folly and desperation are ofttimes hard to tell apart,” Maester Luwin said to himself as he tied off the bandage around Bran’s leg.

Quent poked a body with his sword. “Shall we bury them?”

“They would not have buried us,” he said. “Hack off their heads and we’ll send them to the hall. Leave the rest for the carrion crows.” It was unnecessary, maybe even cruel, but Robb had no desire to spend any more time in the wolfswood, giving a group who had threatened his family a peaceful rest. To be buried would do them a kindness.

“And this one?” Quent pointed at the only living one left. A woman, the one who had tried to push him from his horse with her spear. She was on her knees, hands clasped before her.

“Give me my life, m’lord of Stark and I am yours.”

“Mine? What would I do with an oathbreaker?”

“I broke no oath. Stiv and Wallen flew down off the wall, not me. The black crows got no place for a woman.”

Theon had crossed the river and glanced at the woman disdainfully. “Give her to the wolves.”

“She’s a woman,” he said and despite himself, Robb turned and looked at Rhaenys. Jon was beside her, periodically checking on the wound along her throat.

“She’s a wildling,” Bran said. “She said they should keep me alive so they could take me to Mance Rayder.”

“Do you have a name?” he asked her. Her hair was terribly matted and truly, if he had not looked twice, he wouldn’t have known that she was woman. She wore the same grubby garments as the other wildlings who now lay scattered upon the ground.

“Osha as it pleases my lord,” she replied, acid upon her tongue.

Maester Luwin rose. “We might as well question her,” he said and made his way over to where Rhaenys sat, pulling the piece of cloth back to look at her wound.

“As you say Maester. Wayn, bind her hands. She’ll come back to Winterfell with us.” He looked at her long and hard. “And live or die by the truth she gives us.”

With those words, Robb scooped up Bran. He could not go back into his saddle, for the deserter had sliced the straps, so Robb quietly asked Jon if he would ride with him, keeping him upright and secure. Jon agreed and took Bran from his arms.

Rhaenys was the only one that he worried about. She still trembled and would not say a word.

The ride back from the wolfswood was staunchly different than the ride there. Osha was tied to Quent’s horse and they rode in a morbid procession through Wintertown and through the gates of Winterfell.

Rickon was waiting for them with one of the young maids by the name of Branda and Hallis Mollen, who realized the situation immediately, ushering both Rickon and the maid inside.

Robb dismounted. “Deserters and wildlings. They are all dead apart from her.” He gestured to Osha. “I want to question her.”

Hallis nodded and led her away, followed by the four guardsmen.

“Brandon will need to be sewn up. The cut is deep, and it will aid the healing,” Maester Luwin said to him as he climbed down from the donkey.

Jon passed Bran down from the horse and Robb got another look at the cut. Blood had already leaked through bandage, though Bran hadn’t noticed. “Jon,” Robb began as his brother scooped him back up. “Take him to the sickroom. I’ll be there soon enough.”

With a glance, Jon looked to where Rhaenys was stood, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. “You needn’t hurry. Take care of her.”

Robb led her up to their chambers where two of the maidservants were waiting with the bath filled up with steaming water. On the table, there was a pile of fresh bandages and a pitcher of water.

He did not know what he was supposed to do. Did he stay with her, or did he let the maidservants clean her and return later. Did Rhaenys even want him there, or was she upset with him?

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. As he turned to leave, he heard a small plaintive whimper.

“Don’t go.”

It came so quietly that he wasn’t sure that he heard her. “Rhae?”

“Please, don’t go,” Rhaenys turned and tears were in her eyes. “Please. Don’t leave me.”

And so he didn’t. Dismissing the maids, Robb unclasped her cloak, letting it fall to the floor with a soft _thump_. Without it, he could see the full extent of gore on her.

Across her abdomen was dark red from the dead deserter, along the right side of her face there was a spray of blood. Her palms were scraped and there was a shallow cut on her forearm. Robb reached up and unwound the bandage from around her throat.

It was the worst by far. A uniform line where the knife dug into her neck, it was barely wider than his little finger, but it had bled substantially and dripped down her throat, staining the neckline of her dress.

Even looking at it gave him a pit in his stomach. It was proof of what he failed to do. He was supposed to protect her, and he failed, just like he failed Bran. What kind of man was he supposed to be, one that couldn’t keep his family safe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry Rhae.”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered and turned around, moving her hair out of the way. “It’s not your fault.”

Carefully, he unlaced the back of her dress and peeled the sleeves down, taking care of the cut on her arm. Even her shift, that had been pristine and white in the morning was soaked through with blood, turning it a dark pink.

Rhaenys stepped out of the dress and without even bothering to remove her shift, climbed into the bath.

It must have been boiling, but if it was, she gave no indication, instead watching as the blood that had not yet dried leached into the water. Truly, it was her stoniness that worried him. She was unforgiving as marble and her face had remained solemn ever since they had reached Winterfell.

Robb knelt down beside the bath and with some wet linens, reached over and wiped away the dried blood on her face. It fell away in flakes and she flinched as the fell into the water. When she was clean, Robb began to bandage the cut at her throat gently.

A knock came at the door and he rose. Standing with a cup in her hand was a young girl. “Maester Luwin sent milk of the poppy for milady,” she said shakily. “To help her sleep.”

“Thank you,” he said and took the cup from her, shutting the door. “Rhae, the Maester sent milk of the poppy-“

“I don’t want it,” Rhaenys said, not looking up. “It’ll just give me bad dreams.” Gradually she rose from the bath, water dripping wet and stepped out.

Putting it on the table with the pitcher, he turned. “What do you mean?”

“When I was little, they gave me milk of the poppy because I would seldom sleep without my mother. Uncle Doran tried everything, but nothing would work, so they gave me some. It sent me straight to sleep but wouldn’t let me wake. I dreamt about my mother, about hearing her die while I was trapped, unable to help her. Hearing Egg die with her.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want it. Don’t make me take it.”

“Never,” he promised and sat down with her upon the bed.

“I don’t want to relive it,” she said as if she had not heard him and drew her legs up to her chest.

“Relive what?”

She took a deep shuddering breath. “I’ve never killed anyone before,” Rhaenys said, hollow, arms tight around her knees. “Never. I didn’t think I was capable of it, but I was. I am.” She bit her lip and turned her head to him. “I killed someone,” her voice broke and tears gathered. “Robb, I killed someone.”

Instinctively, he pulled her into his arms. “It’s alright.” He did not know what he was supposed to say. The man would have died anyway, he was a deserter and they knew the consequences of fleeing the wall. Rhaenys had taken his life and perhaps the world was better for it.

But that would offer her no comfort, so instead he stayed quiet, letting her sob. Tears began, rolling down her cheeks steadily. At first it was like a drizzle of rain that steadily became downpour. Throughout it all, Rhaenys didn’t say a word. She did not have to.

Slowly, the tears dried. The sobs became hiccups and Rhaenys calmed. Stroking her hair, Robb held her tightly to him, until her eyes drifted shut. He stayed with her until she fell asleep, and in the dark of the room, with blood and tears still upon his doublet, Robb swore to himself that he would protect his family with his life. What had happened would never again occur.

In the dark of his chambers, with his wife in his arms, Robb Stark made a vow to the old gods and the new, that if he had to, he would kill for them. If he had to, he would die for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things really begin to get serious here...  
> Let me know what you thought and as always, thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed!


	24. SOUTHERN LIES

Every night became a routine. Robb would remove the bandages along her throat and examine the cut. The first nights were the hardest, when he would wipe it with fresh linens. Maester Luwin insisted that it be cleansed with water to prevent infection, so Robb obliged, dipping the fabric in clean water and tenderly wiping at the cut. Despite his best intentions, Rhaenys would flinch and clench her fists so tightly that her she would leave indents of her fingernails along her palms.

He would apologize constantly for causing her additional suffering and with every wince or stifled hiss of pain, Robb would wish that it was he that bore the wound instead. However, despite the initial discomfort, the Maester’s advice worked. The angry red line faded to pink, to silver in a matter of weeks. It was easy to ignore, nearly invisible really, but Robb could tell that she despised it.

In the soft glow, when the rest of the keep was asleep and the only sound was the wind whistling outside, her hand would drift to the scar. When Rhaenys thought that he wasn’t looking, she would run her finger across the ridge as if a simple touch could make it vanish.

At those times, she was not herself. Her eyes were distant and colder than the ice outside the keep. She slept with her back to him, curled up beneath the furs, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if she could force herself to sleep.

It was a horrible thing to see her in such a way. More often than not, Robb would wake to see her sitting by the fire in just her shift, staring at the crackling embers, fixated. Her eyes would be red, and tears would stain her cheeks.

“Rhae,” he murmured, barely audible, voice hoarse from sleep. “Rhae, come back to bed.” She wouldn’t move until he climbed out of bed and knelt beside her. It was always warm by the hearth and Robb did not know how she did not burn up. Slowly, he wiped what remained of the salty tears from her face with his thumb. “Rhae, what’s wrong?”

As if waking from a trance, she blinked. “I’m fine, it’s just a dream.” She turned to look at Robb and tried to smile. “I’m fine.” Then, with his help, she would rise and lie back in the bed, wrapped in his arms.

In the morning, it was like it never happened. She would wake and get changed, go see Rickon, go over the ledgers and listen to the smallfolk petition, sit with Bran and talk with Gage about inventory, then go to bed each night, waking with dark circles that were worse than the day before.

He didn’t know what to do. Robb worried about his wife, but this was worse. She was not herself.

As for Bran, he was still shaky. It was not safe in the Wolfswood alone for him, and Hodor would not be guard enough. Not even Summer was sufficient protection and Robb could not spare the men to take him back there. Surely the bodies would still litter the forest floor, decomposing into the ground. The only one left was the wildling woman, Osha.

She had been put to work in the kitchens, shackled at the wrist and ankles after being deemed relatively safe. After being interrogated by Hallis, Osha had insisted that she had nothing to do with taking Bran or Rhaenys hostage.

Instead, she claimed that she was fleeing dead men that walked, like all of the wildlings and Mance Rayder, the King beyond the Wall. It was the stuff that Robb had been told as a child by Old Nan, of the others and ice spiders.

Stories told to naughty children in order to get them to go to bed, but Osha obviously believed that there was something there worthy of escaping from. He would not kill her when her only crime was being born a wildling, so she was put to work in the kitchens.

When he did see her, she was hurrying around the yard with her head down and arms full. The shackles prevented her from taking long strides, but she had more success with her strange shuffle, staying far away from the guardsmen milling around the yard.

Along with the heads of the former men of the Night’s Watch, Robb sent a request to the Wall. If there were any deserters, they were to send a rider to alert them in Winterfell. No deserter ever made it far, but it was safer for all to be warned of desperate men.

His father was fond of saying that doomed men were the deadliest, for they had nothing to lose. Their lives were forfeit anyway. In the woods that day, it was the look in the eyes of the deserters that frightened him the most. Not the fear of the wolves of even Robb and Jon who held their sharp weapons with the blood of his comrades still dripping onto the dirt, but the underlying resignation that he would do whatever he had to in order to live. Even if it meant killing a mere boy.

Besides, there was still the remaining worry of his family in the south. News made its way to Winterfell slowly but surely and Maester Luwin received a raven from his father telling of what had happened to the King.

Robert Baratheon was hurt. Badly. How it happened was the question. How could such a beast of a man, who slew Rhaegar upon the Trident and ended the Greyjoy Rebellion with a swing of his hammer.

With each man coming North, they brought more and more stories of what had caused such injury, each tale more disturbing than the last. One man claimed that the Queen had grown sick of his whoring and poisoned his wine, another said he had fallen from his steed. A third declared he had gored by a bull while on a hunting trip. A fourth announced that he had dropped down clutching his heart and the final whispered that Lord Stark had set a wolf upon him.

Some even claimed that his children were not in fact his own, but all bastards, the children of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. It was up to Robb and his council to pick apart the truth, extracting as much accurate information as they could.

The only thing that all the tales could agree was that he would not recover. No, King Robert, first of his name would die in bed, surrounded by hungry lions, ready to tear into what little remained of his legacy.

As for his father and sisters, they all remained in the south surrounded by the same predators that killed the king, with no way to escape.

In the soft candle light, Robb sat with Theon Greyjoy, Jon Snow, Hallis Mollen, Maester Luwin and his wife and they tried in vain to decide what to do.

“Call the banners,” Theon said, leaning back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Call the banners and go south. The Lannisters will piss themselves at the sight of your army.”

“There is no reason to,” Maester Luwin cautioned, tugging at his collar. “Not yet. When the King is dead, Lord Stark will be dismissed as the Hand, and return North.”

“What about Sansa?” Rhaenys twisting her fingers together in her lap. “If she’s going to marry him, they won’t just give her up. To keep the crown, they will need ties to the North. Especially if what is said about the children is true. Stannis will want the throne as Robert’s heir. War will break out. War for the Iron Throne.”

“Not the first time for that twice damned chair,” Theon chuckled to himself and Jon sent a withering glare his way.

“If the banners are called, it will not be long before word travels to King’s Landing. There will surely be a letter from the King ordering the Warden of the North to pledge fealty on its way,” Hallis said, palms flat upon the wooden table.

“Pledge fealty to a mere boy and a cruel one at that,” Robb said to himself before standing. “We wait. My mother will return soon enough, and she will bring news of what is happening in the south. When we receive that, we will make our final decisions.”

They all began to disperse. Maester Luwin shuffling out of the door, followed by an impatient Theon and Hallis. Before she left, Rhaenys turned and kissed him softly. “Rickon will be needing a bath, though I can’t tell you how long it will take, hours or perhaps days.”

It was true, his youngest brother spent the last few hours running around the godswood rolling around in the dirt and snow with Shaggydog. With mother and father gone, Rickon was as wild as his wolf. Robb tried in vain to somehow keep him under control, but it was not an easy task. Rhaenys seemed to be the only one that he allowed to come remotely close to. She was the only one who could calm his temper, get him into bed on time. She could even convince him to have a bath, though Rickon claimed he much preferred to play in the hot springs.

“It’s alright,” he replied, pushing the chair back and standing as well. “Bran asked to see me earlier.”

“How is he?” Rhaenys threaded her arm through his. “I haven’t had much time to speak with him since…”

“He’s well. Maester Luwin has been working on a new chair that will allow him to move through the godswood without getting stuck.”

“And his leg?”

“Healed.”

“Good.”

Rhaenys let go of his arm and turned the corner to enter Rickon’s room, where there seemed to be quite the commotion.

It did not take Robb long to find his brother, there were very few places he could be. Like usual, he was sitting in the great hall, looking terribly miserable. His wheeled chair had finally been perfected and he was capable of pushing himself around with his arms by using grooves in the wheels, but it was hard grueling work and his palms were still yet to grow callouses. It was only usable around the keep, where the floor was solid and there wasn’t any risk of him being mired in the mud. The rest of the time, he was carried upon Hodor’s back in a basket.

He looked up, closing the book in his lap. “Robb?”

“How are you?”

Bran shrugged and held up a hand. His palm was red and weeping. “I’ve got a few blisters. Maester Luwin told me that he would bandage them, but he hasn’t yet.”

“And your leg?”

He thumped a fist upon it aggressively. “It doesn’t hurt. It never hurts.”

“Bran,” Robb reached and placed a hand upon his arm. “I was wondering if you’d like to watch the guardsmen train with me. There is still a few hours of daylight left. You can tell me what they need to improve upon. You’re far more observant than I am.”

He looked down into his lap, but a thin hopeful smile slid across his lips. “Alright.”

His chair was heavier than Robb expected, and it was far from easy to push it through the halls. It was no wonder that Bran’s hands were so raw.

In the yard the men trained, led by Jon and surprisingly, Theon. Jon wielded his sword like it was an extension of his arm, while Theon appeared less confident, but still better than almost all of the men. He was far more confident with a bow, that Robb knew for a fact.

“Parry! Parry, you daft prick!” Theon shouted as one sliced at his opponent, but the shout came too late, and the man dropped his sword onto the ground. Theon rolled his eyes. “Again.”

Across from him, Jon was quiet as the men clashed. Their training swords were blunted and could do little damage, but the sound of steel on steel rang across the yard. Instead of shouting instruction, Jon simply watched as one disarmed the other and then interjected. “You drop your guard on your left when retreating, see it raised.”

Both men nodded and Jon moved to the next men who both panted with exertion. “What have you noticed about him,” Robb asked his brother. “What’s the difference between Jon and Theon?”

Bran tilted his head, almost birdlike. “Theon is louder, he keeps shouting at them. Jon is showing them.”

Robb nodded in affirmation. “Aye, but which is the right method?”

“Both I think,” he pointed to where Theon patrolled the group. “They are better than Jon’s men, they should already know the basics. Jon’s teaching them the right way to hold a sword and how to defend themselves. Theon’s teaching his group to attack.”

A smile split his face. “Exactly. This way no man is left wholly defenseless on the battlefield.”

“Is there going to be a battle?”

Robb hesitated, unsure what to say. Bran had faced his fair share of hardships, but he was still a boy. “I don’t know. But it is always good to be prepared.”

Bran opened his mouth to reply when a shout came from the men watching the gates and silence fell over the yard like wind extinguishing a flame.

“What’s going on?” Robb shouted up to the men patrolling the walls of Winterfell.

“M’lord,” a guardsmen called from the turrets poking his head over into the yard. “There are riders approaching the East gates.”

Bran’s eyes lit up. “Could it be mother?” he asked in such an optimistic voice that all Robb wanted was it to be their mother simply for Bran’s sake.

“What standard do they bear?”

The guardsman disappeared again. When he reappeared, his face was twisted in confusion. “A black fish m’lord.”

“That’s not Northern,” Bran said, wilting. “Who is it?”

“No it’s not northern. It’s from the Riverlands.” He knew that the Tully’s used a silver trout, but Robb remembered hearing of a man whose men bore such a sigil. His mother had mentioned him in stories when they were young. Clapping Bran on the shoulder, Robb strode forward. “Open the gates!”

Five men rode through, all in clad in ring mail. The leader sat tall upon a brown courser and wore a cloak of blue clasped with a black and gold trout. and Robb knew immediately who the man was. He had heard enough stories about him from his mother.

“I seek Robb Stark,” the grizzled man demanded in a gruff voice, dismounting from the horse and landing hard on the ground. He had the blue eyes of the Tully’s, but if his hair had once been red, it was no longer, instead it was grey as the darkening sky. “I bring word from the Lady of Winterfell.”

So this was one of the heroes of the War of this Ninepenny Kings, his own flesh and blood. Brynden Tully. The infamous Blackfish.

Robb stepped forward, solemn as his lord father. “You are speaking to him,” he said and paused. “Uncle.”

There was a moment of silence as both appraised each other, then the older man’s weather-beaten face split into a grin. Brynden Tully roared and embraced him so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. He was taller and broader than he was, far more battle weary. He pulled back, hands upon his shoulder and looking him up and down. “You look like your mother.”

Robb raised a brow. “I cannot say the same.”

Brynden chuckled heartily. “The cheek of you lad.”

Still sitting in the wheeled chair Bran looked downcast, until the Blackfish spotted him, and his smile broadened. “You must be young Brandon. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Really?” his voice was quiet, and he seemed to be prepared for disappointment, but all Brynden did was smile at him without pity.

“Aye,” he said. “Cat has told me all about you.”

It was as if those simple words had given Bran the use of his legs again, for he beamed in such a way that the sun was put to shame. “Really?”

“She told me all about her middle son, who was clever enough to find all of the secret passages in the keep.”

This was news to Robb, who had no idea there were secret passages in the keep at all, let alone more than one. He turned to Bran who flushed a deep crimson. “I didn’t know that mother knew about them!”

“Mothers know a lot more than you think.”

“Come inside Ser,” Robb said, gesturing for the grooms to come and take the horses. “We’ve warm beds and ale. You must be tired from your journey.”

“I’m afraid that we cannot rest yet. I’ve plenty to tell you nephew and not all of it good,” he said, handing the courser to the stable boy. “You will want to call your council.”

 

***

 

Rhaenys was not quite sure what to expect when Jon told her that Lady Catelyn’s uncle had arrived in Winterfell. She did not know much about him, only that he was hero in the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Brynden Tully was not a young man, but he carried himself like one. As Rhaenys entered the solar with Jon at her side, both he and Robb looked up at the noise. The Blackfish wore ring mail as if he had just ridden from a battlefield and mud coated his boots. He bore his age well, weariness cutting deep wrinkles along his face.

“My Lord,” she said and curtseyed. It was a poor curtsey that even Arya would have found sloppy, but neither of them seemed to care.

Robb smiled briefly, but it did not match the seriousness in his eyes. “Uncle, this is my wife, Rhaenys and my brother Jon.”

Ser Brynden did not say a thing as Theon, Hallis and Maester Luwin entered the solar. They gathered around the table and Rhaenys could not help the shiver that ran down her spine.

“Robert Baratheon is dead,” Robb announced, his words echoing around the silent room. “Joffrey is now King.”

“Seven hells,” Theon muttered.

That was not all. Robb took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “Father has been arrested for treason by Joffrey. Renly Baratheon had fled to Highgarden and Stannis Baratheon has declared himself king as Robert’s only trueborn heir.”

“Seven hells.”

“What is the charge?” Maester Luwin asked, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. “Treason, but what is the proof behind it, why have they accused him of treason?”

“There is no charge, it is all a farce. All of the Baratheon children are bastards borne of incest,” the Blackfish said. “They are Lannister through and through. Stannis has announced that he is the rightful king and gathers his army upon Dragonstone.”

Fear gripped her insides, twisting them in its cold hands.

“What of Arya and Sansa?” Jon asked.

“Both remain in King’s Landing under the protection,” -Robb hissed the word as if it hurt to even say it- “of the King and his mother.”

Hallis swallowed audibly. “And Lord Stark?”

“In the black cells, preparing for his trial,” said Ser Brynden. “Though they have naught to charge him with. If there is a trial, it will be over before it begins.”

Robb stood up and surveyed all those standing around the table. At that moment, he did not look like the man she married, but instead the Lord of Winterfell. “Maester Luwin, prepare your ravens,” he said, palms flat against the table. “I shall write to all the lords on the behalf of my father. We are going to war.” All the tension and worry in the room increased tenfold, but Maester Luwin nodded mutely.

“And the girls?” Rhaenys asked quietly, hand drifting up to her throat. “What will happen when Joffrey hears of this?”

“We will rescue the girls and my father,” Robb said. “Call the banners.”

It was no easy thing listening to news of another war. The last one had cost her everything. A mother and father, a brother, a title, a home. It nearly cost her life. The rest of the realm had suffered dearly as well. Only seventeen years between the two, enough time for boys to grow into soldiers and then for them to die upon the battlefield for the throne.

When council was finally adjourned, Rhaenys ached.

She went to their chambers alone, as Robb wrote letter after letter to Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, Lord Glover, Lord Karstark and every other Northern Lord he could think of. Brynden Tully hovered over his shoulder. Before Rhaenys left, the Blackfish explained that Lady Catelyn had visited her sister at the Eyrie before returning North. It was there that she learned of Robert Baratheon’s death and Lord Stark’s arrest. Lysa Arryn refused to help by sending men.

Lannister soldiers were amassing by the border of the Riverlands, surely preparing for something and with Lord Stark arrested for nothing, it drew unwelcome comparisons to Brandon and Rickard Stark all those years ago. The Blackfish resigned his post and Lady Catelyn sent him North, travelling to Riverrun and then onto Moat Cailin with Rodrik Cassel.

It made sense for her to stay behind, but Rickon and Bran needed their mother. She had yet to see Bran awake and he missed her so. Even Robb, though he would seldom admit it, wished for her guidance and Rhaenys felt like a poor replacement.

She dismissed the maid servants, unlacing her dress herself and stepping into the cold air by herself. Despite her better judgement, Rhaenys examined the scar. It was an ugly thing and she could not help but despise it. It only brought her bad memories and even though it did not hurt, the memory stung.

Once in bed, she was left with only her thoughts as company.

Rhaenys was having strange dreams once again. Early in the marriage, she had odd dreams, about her mother and about King’s Landing, but like all things, they stopped, and instead other concerns encroached upon her mind. Worries over the supplies, the coming winter, Bran and Rickon as well as Lord Stark and the girls in the south constantly clouded her mind.

But when she lay beneath the furs dressed in only her shift while the wolves howled outside, Rhaenys felt like a little girl once more. Overly fragile. The wound upon her neck was healing well, slowly fading to little more than a silvery line along her throat.

When she was young, before Oberyn had taught her to handle a weapon, he had treated her like a doll. Guards stood outside her rooms morning and night, they followed her like shadows as she rode upon the sand steeds.

Nobody ever told her why, but it changed when she was gifted her sword. Suddenly, she was thrust into a world of weapons and fights and she relished it. Rhaenys could remember the days when she would collapse onto her bed, exhausted and happy. She could also remember the scolding she would receive from her Septa about it all, but it made the victories even sweeter.

Rhaenys did not know when she became weak once more, barely capable of protecting herself, but the scar along her throat would be a permanent reminder. It would never happen again.

She was half asleep when Robb entered the chambers, so tired that it was an effort even to lift her head from the pillow. He slipped beneath the furs and gathered her close to his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

When her eyes finally closed, the darkness welcomed her into its embrace.

_A soft song woke her from her sleep, the Mother’s Hymn. It was something from so many years ago. A dream and a memory at the same time. Hearing the tender melody, Rhaenys was reminded of curtains billowing in the wind and stories whispered in the dark before a dying fire._

_The furs were heavy and soft and Rhaenys’ lifted her head from Robb’s chest. The steady heart beat grew faint as she pulled away, looking up for the source of the song. Pushing back the covers, Rhaenys slid her feet down until they touched the stone. The cold of the room nipped against her bare legs but the hot springs beneath the castle still heated the floor._

_Each step was automatic and led her to the hearth, where the sound emerged from. The song grew louder with each step until it echoed in her ears._ Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughter through this fray.

_Rhaenys dropped to her knees, staring at the hypnotic flames until the song stopped._

_A shadow fell and Rhaenys looked up. Her breath caught in her throat and the cold that surrounded her like a cloak fell away into warmth._

_Elia Martell looked the same as Rhaenys remembered. Perhaps a little sadder. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, held in place with a golden clip and she wore yellow and orange silks. Rhaenys never suited orange, but her mother looked beautiful. She wore no jewels, nothing to mark her as a princess, but she didn’t need them._

_She was radiant._

_A wordless sob fell from Rhaenys’ lips and she threw her arms around her mother’s neck, clinging like a mere child. Elia smelt like oranges and sunshine and Dorne, the scent of her childhood._

_“Oh my darling girl,” her mother whispered, smoothing down her hair and holding her so tightly that nothing could pull them apart. Rhaenys buried her face into her shoulder so that the gentle silk was soft against her cheek. “Oh sweetling, I’ve missed you with all of my heart.”_

_Rhaenys could not bring herself to speak, but instead she held on even tighter._

_“Let me see you, let me look at you,” Elia murmured and with great reluctance Rhaenys pulled away. In her dreams before, her mother had been gaunt and beneath her soft smiles, there had been a frailty that lingered but now her mother shone like the sun that she was._

_In the pale glow of the moon, Rhaenys let her mother see her. She wore a shift and her hair was in a heavy rope of a braid that had begun to unravel from all of the tossing and turning. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her throat and she covered the scar with her hand._

_“No,” her mother said, taking her hand gently. “Let me see sweetling.”_

_“It’s vile,” she whispered. “It’s horrible.”_

_“I have many a scar Rhaenys. The maesters bled me more than once when I was a girl, sometimes deeply. Oberyn insisted that it was cruel and unnecessary to do it when I was already weak, but it happened anyway. It stopped hurting the more it happened, and I remember falling asleep so quickly.”_

_“But they did anyway?” In that moment, she felt as if she was no more than a babe, asking questions and begging for stories._

_“Indeed. Despite it, I bore my pain with dignity.” Elia reached out and ran her thumb along the mark. “Our scars do not define us. They instead offer us the chance to see our mistakes and harm.”_

_“It proves that I am weak.”_

_“No it doesn’t my darling girl. It proves that you are strong. That you fought, and that you won.”_

_“I killed someone. I stabbed him, and I don’t regret it. Is that wrong of me? I promised never to hurt anyone, yet why my knife disappeared into his chest all I felt was relief,” the words spilled from her lips so quickly that she could not control herself. “I don’t hate this scar for proving I am weak. I hate because it is a permanent reminder of what happened that day.”_

_It took all of her willpower to calm herself._

_“Tell me about your husband,” Elia said and glanced over to where Robb lay fast asleep beneath the furs. “Do you love him yet?”_

_Rhaenys looked at Robb, breathing evenly as the light of the moon shone upon his face. He looked younger when he slept, like the boy of eight and ten that he truly was. The worry that marred his face had gone, and instead he looked like his brothers._

_“I do,” Rhaenys. “I didn’t think that I would, but I do.”_

_“You’re lucky sweetling. Many women do not marry for love, or even experience it. To have it is such a precious thing.”_

_“Doran had it once with Mellario,” Rhaenys said quietly. “Oberyn has it with Ellaria.”_

_“Yet I never did,” her mother said, voice growing distant, the light of the flames becoming brighter. “Not the love that my brothers had, nor what you have sweetling, but I know this. Love is as strong as iron and as gentle as a sea breeze. It is as fragile as paper, yet as passionate as fire,” Elia caressed her hand, kneeling before the glowing embers. “It is what I always wanted for my children, to have what I did not.”_

_She faded away into the bright light and suddenly, Rhaenys was all alone again._

It was not the first time she dreamt of her mother. It was becoming increasingly more common in the weeks after the attack and in some ways, it offered her comfort. In others, pain.

Rhaenys did not know how she ended up kneeling before the hearth in her shift. She did not know what time it was when Robb woke without her in his arms. It was when he dropped beside her that Rhaenys finally blinked.

“Rhae,” he whispered and pushed her hair from her face. “Rhae, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine. Tell me what’s wrong, please.” Robb took her hands in his and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Please, Rhae. You can’t keep holding this in. Tell me what I have to do.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s my mother. I keep dreaming about my mother. I miss her.” She ripped her hand from his grasp and wiped frantically at her eyes. “Don’t you see? There is nothing you can do. She’s already dead.” Her voice broke. “She’s already dead.” Rhaenys sobbed, chest heaving and tears slipping down her cheeks, landing in her lap. “My mother is dead, and I nearly joined her.”

He didn’t speak when he pulled her into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other along her back. Robb stayed quiet. There was nothing to say. Nothing to reflect the pain that came with losing a parent, to being so callously reminded of the finality of death.

It might have been minutes or hours before Rhaenys calmed herself. She did not know. Her heart slowed and the shaky inhale and exhales slowed down. She straightened and looked at Robb with bloodshot eyes. They did not speak for some time.

“You told me once that women in Dorne knew how to defend themselves,” Robb began solemnly.

Her brow furrowed. “Not all women, but Oberyn always taught his daughters, and then he taught me. So I could protect myself.” Her uncle never said it, but Rhaenys knew that Elia was on his mind. He hadn’t been there for her that dreadful night, but he could help her daughter.

“What did you learn with?”

“All sorts. I tried archery, but I was never much good. Spears, though I was not as suited to it as Nymeria. I received a short sword from Oberyn on my thirteenth nameday.” She sniffled at the memory.

“What happened to it?”

“I gave it to Oberyn when he left here. I didn’t think I would need it and that it would sit gathering dust at the bottom of my trunks. Besides, I did not know what kind of man you would be when we travelled North.”

“Did you think I would deny you the right to protect yourself?”

“Well,” she paused for a moment, thinking back to when she had arrived in the North, frightened and frozen. “Yes.”

Robb reached out his hand to cup her cheek. “Never,” he vowed. “Never. I would never deny you anything. You are my wife and my partner. I trust you with my life.”

She kissed him then, at first gently but then it grew. Rhaenys threw her arms around his neck and fell into him as if he were the only thing in the world that could keep her steady. There had been a chasm between them ever since the day in the wolfswood, one that would have continued to deepen and grow had it not been bridged.

Rhaenys finally pulled away, pressing her forehead to his. Auburn mixed with midnight. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he whispered. “So much I could scarce breathe.”

Together, wrapped in each other’s arms they watched what little was left of the embers crackle and glow.

“Do you remember the night that we wed?” Robb asked, brushing her hair away from the scar, fingertips ghosting along it. “I told you all of the stories of my own multitude of injuries,” Rhaenys giggled to herself. Unperturbed, he continued still running his hand up and down her arm. “Like when Theon nicked me with that arrow and all of the bruises and scrapes that Jon and I gave each other.”

“I do,” she said. When they married, she could hardly speak to him, but now she knew his body as well as she knew her own.

“Do you remember what I told you that night?”

"Scars fade,” Rhaenys recalled. “But if you know that they are there…” she trailed off, much like he did that night.

“They are a reminder of your strength and your courage. Every scar tells a story Rhaenys. Do not be ashamed of what you have fought through.”

“I’m not ashamed,” she replied more forcefully than necessary. “I’m not. I hate that he has left something on me.” Her hand drifted to the ridge, thumb drifting along the scar. “I hate that people will look at me and see this and all they will think is that I am a simple, weak southern girl and can barely protect myself,” she could not bring herself to look at him and instead bit the inside of her cheek. “I hate that I could so easily become my mother.”

Robb reached his hand over. “Rhae-“

“The only thing she will be remembered for is her death. She won’t be remembered for her grace or her kindness or how she told me stories about her childhood climbing the orange trees at Sunspear. All will be forgotten apart from how she died screaming for her children as _he_ raped her and crushed her skull.” Her eyes grew moist and Rhaenys wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I won’t be my mother. I won’t!”

“You needn’t be,” he breathed, taking her hand in his. “You are Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Elia Martell, but you aren’t her.”

She exhaled shakily. “My mother was strong and brave. Just because she could not fight with a weapon doesn’t mean she was not as courageous as any man.”

“Just like her daughter.” A wolf howled into the night. “It was the most amazing thing to see you fight like that. You’re far better than some of the men.”

Despite herself, Rhaenys laughed and it felt wonderful like the weight that she carried for so long had been lifted from around her neck. “Are you so sure?”

“Aye,” Robb grinned. “Perhaps you should be the captain of the guard. You could give Theon a whipping any day”

Rhaenys smiled as he kissed her softly, cupping her jaw with his calloused hand, but all to suddenly the sweetness of the moment passed and Robb grew serious once more, finally standing and offering her his hand.

“The next moon will not be easy Rhae. The Northern Lords will come, and they will not see the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. They will see the quiet southern girl and a green boy who has never seen battle.” She took the outstretched hand and he hauled her up. “With father arrested, they will be vying for power and command. They will want to test us, see if we are too young, too weak to lead.” Even though his hair was in disarray and he wore only his breeches, Robb had never seemed like more of a lord. “My father left Winterfell and the North in our hands. I will not fail it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for all your lovely comments. I had a tough few weeks when writing this chapter, and when I struggled, I looked at all of your comments again and felt better. This was a difficult one for several reasons. I was worried that it would not meet expectations after the last one, and my mind got the best of me at some points. I have also been pretty sick and have some exams to contend with.  
> That being said, I hope that you all enjoy this chapter!


	25. THE FIRST BATTLE

Arya Stark hated the south. She hated the Queen with her sickeningly sweet smiles but voice like venom. She hated the new King who thought himself a gallant knight but was nothing more than a worm. She hated the dead King, who rotted in the Sept with a hole in his leg and she hated all of the guards who patrolled the hallways with blades in their hands and murder in their hearts. She hated the Kingslayer who tossed his head and rode off with the Lannister men while Arya watched.

She wanted to hate Sansa. Stupid Sansa who cowered before the queen and who loved Joffrey and who cried about father and never tried to see him. Her sister, the one who wrote letter after letter directed by the Queen to Robb and her mother and anyone else, _they_ could think of, not understanding what she was doing. Who still defended Cersei Lannister while father languished in his cell.

Yet, Arya could not hate her sister. Not when she was trapped with nobody left in the Red Keep in the tallest of the towers and Arya roamed free in the streets.

She still did not know how it had all happened. One moment she had been roaming the Keep chasing cats and staring down monstrous dragon skulls. She had been listening to men speak of their little birds and wading through the sewage. One moment she was training with Syrio Forel, leaping and twirling like a Braavosi Water Dancer, then suddenly she was in the stables with a bloody sword, hiding a body beneath the straw.

When she was trying to sleep, Arya thought about the face of the boy. She could not bring herself to regret the simple thrust to his chest, but she could not forget it, the look in his eyes when he realized that he was dying and that she had killed him. He was almost shocked that a mere girl had caused his death and then the light left his eyes and he tumbled to the ground.

During the day when gold cloaks patrolled the streets, she pretended not to be Arya Stark. Instead she became Arya Underfoot, who could keep her head low and escape from Septa Mordane and all of the guards. She thought back to when she had run into the woods with Nymeria and when she slept, dreamt that she was beneath the canopy of trees once more, with no worries or fear. Instead simply a task.

Arya did not know who was still alive. Father and Sansa, but the blood that had made the floors slippery could have belonged to anyone. She could remember a man lying face down while his entrails spilt from his belly like black snakes. His face was so red, that she could not make out his features, only the grey cloak upon his back and the sigil of the Hand of the King upon his chest.

Jory could be dead, Vayon Poole, Harwin and Fat Tom and Alyn all dead and rotting. Joffrey would not give them a burial, so they would be dumped in a hole, or their heads mounted upon pikes adorning the ramparts.

She thought of Desmond and his boast that a north man was worth ten of any southern flower. _Dead._ She thought of Hullen and his open eyes, unseeing as they stared up to the sky while blood trickled from his mouth in a slow stream after the croaked words of the betrayal. _Dead._ She thought of the stable boy who wanted to give her to the queen. _Dead._

While huddled in a drain beneath the stars, Arya could pretend she was home, laying in the godswood. The smells disappeared, the shouts of the people vanished and all that she needed was the sky. They were the same stars as she looked at in Winterfell and the same that Nymeria saw wherever she was.

In the streets of King’s Landing, Arya Stark lay still until the sun rose and another day dawned.

Her hands stung from untreated cuts. Maester Luwin used to bind any injuries with a gentle scolding, and her mother would kiss them as if she could magically make the pain disappear.

Her belly ached from the lack of food. Sansa used to eat lemon cakes, and once she had split one with her in gesture of goodwill. Arya had been so touched that she had joined her sewing. It had taken two days before they began bickering again.

Her sword was hidden beneath her. It was a reminder of Jon. He stayed in Winterfell and she would smile to herself when she thought of him. Out of all of her siblings, Arya missed him the most. So much that she could barely breathe, but it only hurt and distracted her to think about him. She could not be distracted.

With Needle strapped to her side, Arya climbed onto the roof of the one of the old taverns. That was where the pigeons would gather, and she was small enough to grab them. They weren’t nearly as difficult to catch as the cats in the Red Keep, nor the rats that trod the gutters. And they made a fine meal. Gage used to make a pigeon pie that could make anyone’s mouth water from a mile away.

Syrio had taught her patience, something that Arya had sorely struggled with once. He taught her to take her time, to be as swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake and calm as still water. Each word was a mantra, and she would repeat them until the pigeon was dead in her hands.

Below in the streets bustled the city. They all gossiped of the fall of Lord Stark, of the death of the King and what was happening outside the gate which never opened.

It did not take long to snatch a pigeon and she felt the satisfying crack of its neck breaking. Arya would not go hungry today. From her perch atop the roof, she could see everything.

Children played in the mud with bare feet and only rags to cover them, creatures like mangy cats and mistreated dogs skulked close to the walls, frightened that a temper was the only thing between them and a swift kick to the side for no reason other than they were easy targets.

The gold cloaks patrolled the streets and took restraint not to hurl rocks at them. Every time she saw them, all Arya could think of was all of the bodies in the throne room. Her eyes scanned the two that passed by and despite herself, they were drawn to a stooped figure with his face covered with a hood.

She knew that walk, and she knew that stoop. It was the same that she used when she was frightened the gold cloaks might recognize her.

Still holding the pigeon, Arya hurried down to the cobblestones, landing hard on her ankle. “Seven hells,” she hissed, pausing momentarily to stretch it out, but then taking off after the figure. Beneath the dirty brown cloak, there was a bright flash of steel.

He did not see her, instead he scanned the streets for more of the City Watch. His beard was a state and it was shot with grey that had not been there a fortnight ago.

Arya could not help herself when she darted before him, aware that she looked like nothing more than a street urchin in her dirty clothes, but he was a northerner and knew all of the Stark children.

“Jory!” she breathed, partly in shock, partly in wonderous amazement because Jory was _alive_! Arya wanted to leap into the air and clap her hands and cry all at the same time. The pigeon fell from her grasp, but she did not care.

“Arya?” The former captain of the guards seemed to be in shock at the sight of her, but it dissipated quickly as he reached for the collar of her tunic and hauled her next to a wall, keeping his head low. “Seven hells girl, stay out of sight.”

She frowned in confusion, but it was rectified when a gold cloak passed by with a snarl upon his pox scarred face. The armor glistened in the sun and Arya remembered something that Theon had said to Robb when he thought that nobody was listening.

_“Men with pretty armor are worth less than a whore on the battlefield.”_

When he passed, Jory dropped to one knee, so their faces were level. There was a wicked scar across his cheek that ran over his nose, red and angry. “You escaped.”

“I did,” she felt a blossom of pride spread through her body. “Syrio helped, told me to run so I did.”

He exhaled heavily through his nose. “Has anyone seen you?”

“No. I’m good at hiding.”

He reached up, ruffled her hair and showed off the wry smile that made her think of Winterfell. “Well done Arya. Your father would be proud of you,” Jory said and rose, hand resting on her shoulder and steering her.

“How did you get away?” she asked, still in awe that he was actually alive.

Jory bit down on his lip. “I was not in the Red Keep. Lord Stark bade me and a few others to finish a task for him in Flea Bottom.  I did not know what happened until we returned to the gates and the men tried to kill us all.”

_Others! There are still more alive!_ “Who went with you? Who survived?”

“Cayn, Wyl, Alyn and Harwin all lived, the others were not so lucky. Porther died first, he demanded that we be allowed in the gates and had a dagger thrust through his throat to shut him up. Heward was slain with a sword through his back by a coward,” Jory spoke as if he forgot who she was, like he was in a trance.

She did not know the men well, but each name conjured a fond memory and she mourned each of the dead.

Arya did not recognize the streets they trod. She thought that she had explored most of Flea Bottom, but she had not been here, where it seemed that even the sun did not venture. There was a rotting smell in the air and just when she thought that it would over power her, Jory turned and led her towards her a building. A shack might have been a more apt comparison, for it seemed like even a strong wind would send it collapsing around her.

He knocked firmly on the door twice, then paused and knocked once and then again twice. It swung upon and there, with a foul purple bruise on his face was Harwin. He smelt of ale and defeat, but Arya could not help herself from smiling at the sight of him.

Jory bustled her in before anyone else could say anything but from the looks on the faces of the men, all in various stages of eating, they believed that she was captive with her father and Sansa.

After the initial shock wore off and all of the hunger and worry that had plagued her for the last few days, Arya could barely keep her eyes open. The broth that they fed her was hearty and strong and it filled her belly with warmth. Despite her persistent yawns and the light that shone through the window, the men drilled her for information.

Arya told them everything she could, from her escape, to finding Hullen in the stables and living in the streets. She told them about killing the stable boy and could not bring herself to look up from her lap when the words left her lips. She even told them about the secret passage and that led her through the sewers and out from the Red Keep.

Curling up on the bed in the corner, she closed her eyes, still holding Needle’s hilt in her hand. She missed her mother and she missed her father and she missed Bran and Rickon and Robb and Rhaenys and Jon. She missed Jon the most. She even missed Sansa.

It was an ache, a hole that would not be filled until she saw them all again. Until her father smiled and hugged her, until her mother braided her hair. She desperately wanted for Robb to tell her a story, for Rickon to chase her around the halls, to train the wolves with Bran and for Jon simply to be Jon, to be her brother once more instead of so terribly far away.

Arya squeezed her eyes shut, and her grip tightened around Needle. It was a comfort and a reminder of home.

“How did you find her?” came a whisper from across the room. Harwin.

A nonsensical sound. “She found me. She’s been living on the streets and doing quite well.”

“That’s Lady Arya, she could befriend a rabid dog.”

“Do you believe the story about the sewers? That there’s a passage way into the Red Keep that easily?”

“It makes sense. If she could show us…”

Arya stiffened in the bed, remembering the darkness, the dirt and the overwhelming smell. She remembered the cold water that had seeped into her very bones as she waded through the water. And she remembered the two men.

Father hadn’t believed her, thinking that the two men had been mummers, but Arya knew better. They were real and she knew one of them. Still, his face eluded her, but it was recognizable and the man with the forked beard was far too richly dressed.

They must have seen her move, for suddenly all conversation halted. With a voice so quiet that had she not been taught to listen by Syrio she wouldn’t have heard, Jory spoke. “When she wakes. Arya has been through far too much in the past few days. Let the girl sleep.”

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, instead of lying beneath the stars and the moon, she was beneath a roof. Instead of lying there with one eye open, frightened for her life, she was surrounded by men who were sworn to her father. Instead of fearing that Needle would be stolen in the night, she slept with it by her side. For the first time in so terribly long, Arya Stark fell asleep finally feeling safe.

 

***

 

Grey Wind howled when the first Lord arrived. Summer and Shaggydog joined, letting the chorus fill the air like music. The wolves seemed to sense the change in the air and spotted the men before those in the watch tower. Robb sat upon the same chair that his father would, cloaked in heavy furs and his sword sheathed at his side. Grey Wind lay at his feet, his yellow eyes watchful.

Rhaenys stood to his right, dressed like the Lady of Winterfell. She felt overly dour in the dark colors, and beneath her skirts, Rhaenys could feel her legs trembling. It was not from fear or from cold, but simply from nervousness. It hadn’t been long since the last visitor to Winterfell; Tyrion Lannister and that had not gone particularly well.

Still, it was the first time that Rhaenys had felt like a northerner. The first time she had felt like a wolf.

It was not the time to remember her mother and father or her heritage, but a time to remind the bannermen of their oath to Lord Eddard, so she wore a soft grey dress, the same one that Lady Catelyn had gifted her all those moons ago and the clasped her furs with a direwolf. It had been strange when Robb had given in it her. She had never worn the Stark sigil before, not like this.

Jon just behind her with a solemn look in his eyes. Ser Brynden was on his other side and Hallis behind him, each with a weapon by their sides. Perhaps it was simply a show of strength, but Rhaenys could seldom understand why the swords were needed.

All that she could hear was the sound of breathing and boots stomping through the snow.

Medger Cerwyn entered the hall, a battle-axe strapped to his back. The glistening steel shone in the candle light and reflections bounced around the hall. He had arms thick as an oak tree and a greying beard. Despite his appearance, he was light-footed, and his eyes were bright.

Touting the silver banner of House Cerwyn, his men entered behind him, each armed and dressed in heavy ring mail. As they grew closer and closer, the sound grew louder and louder, a steady drumbeat that could only remind Rhaenys of war until the sound stopped completely leaving only echoing silence in its wake.

“Lord Cerwyn,” Robb said, voice echoing through the hall. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Lord Stark.” His voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight. “I have brought with me two hundred men to free your lord father from chains with five hundred more gathering at Castle Cerwyn waiting for command.

Robb rose from the chair and stepped down from the dais, Grey Wind by his side like a shadow. He crossed to where Medger stood so still that he could have been a statue. Truly, Rhaenys wasn’t quite sure what either of them said, but she could hear a faint murmur.

The exchange could not have been long, but Lord Cerwyn’s face did not betray a thing. She itched to find out what was being said but stayed still until both Robb and Medger faced his men.

“Tomorrow we plan,” her husband announced to the men and closed his hand into a fist. “But tonight, we feast!”

Every north man roared and thrust their weapons toward the ceiling. The steel gleamed in the candle light and the shadows on the granite wall could have been mistaken for a battle itself.

It had taken less than four days for the replies to come, short and concise. Each one answered the call succinctly, bringing their men to the keep. Robb had ordered that the gates remain open, with the portcullis raised even throughout the night so that the armies could rest.

The fires in the kitchen were always lit, burning throughout the nights and days. There was always noise and always movement.  Rhaenys found herself helping Gage make the bread and salting the meat.

It was a set task, something that needed to be done and it was so easy to just ignore all the noise and simply focus.  There would be thousands descending upon the Keep and even Wintertown, all hungry.

The first night, the men feasted in the Great Hall. Rhaenys sat beside Robb, and Bran was next to her. Lord Cerwyn and Ser Brynden were on his other side. Even Jon and Theon were seated at the high table. _Not six moons ago, Jon had been moved far away from the rest of the Starks. Theon could not be trusted around the king lest he curse him for the loss of his brothers and his seat on Pyke. Now look at the pair of them. Brothers in arms._ It was a jarring thought, that things had changed so quickly. Robert Baratheon was dead, Lord and Lady Stark far south and Bran without the usage of his legs. It had all happened so terribly fast and now, a cruel boy-king raged in the capital.

Jon seemed uncomfortable, fiddling with the fine doublet that he wore. It was all black, and for a moment, she could see the man of the Night’s Watch behind the eyes of the boy. Stoic and strong, despite the awkwardness that came with his heritage. Then the veil slipped, and Jon ducked his head as a serving girl poured another glass of wine.

Across the table, Theon was actually restraining himself. Typically, he would be deep into his cups, but as Rhaenys watched in awe, he waved away a pitcher of mead.

Robb had his head low next to Medger Cerwyn while the older man spoke. Rhaenys could only hear snippets of the conversation, words of battle tactics and men wielding weapons. While the men below them cheered and shouted, their lords discussed death and despair.

“Rhaenys,” Bran poked her arm and she turned. “Rhaenys, when will the feast end?”

She stared out over the sea of bodies. “I’m not sure. Plenty will stay until the morning.”

His eyes grew wide. “For that long?”

“When your brother and I wed, there were still stragglers when we woke in the morning. You could hear them from where we slept.” She could not help the wry smile. “Theon did not emerge from his rooms until dinner the next day, and that was only to fetch more wine.”

“I remember that,” Bran said with a snicker. “Arya and I held some string up across the door way and he tripped and fell flat on his face and broke open the cask that he held. He tried to chase us, but he could barely stand up straight. Arya hid in the stables and I climbed up to the top of the covered bridge and threw stones at him.”

“No wonder he was in such a foul mood that day,” Rhaenys laughed and discreetly peeked over to where Theon was cutting into a hunk of undiscernible meat. “He complained to Robb that he could have broken his nose. I thought that he just got into a fight with someone.”

Bran shook his head proudly. “No, it was all me and Arya.” As quickly as it had come, the smile dropped. “What’s going to happen to Sansa and Arya? And father? Robb said that he was arrested. And what about Jory and Vayon Poole and all of the others who went south? What’s going to happen to them?”

Rhaenys bit her lip. Bran was twelve now, the same age as she was when she learned the truth about her father, and older than Robb when he learned that he was to marry her, yet she wished for him to remain a child a little longer, it was an impossible dream.

“Robb is going south to rescue them,” Jon said quietly, and Bran turned to look at him, so much hope in his eyes that it made her heart hurt. “Father is beloved by every Lord in the North. That’s why so many have come to help him and the girls. That is why they will march to King’s Landing.”

_In the last war, all those held hostage in King’s Landing were killed, Stark and Martell alike,_ Rhaenys thought mildly. _Surely the Seven would want to avoid repeating such an affront._

A thump came from down below the dais as one of the serving girls tripped, spilling her tray across the floor. Quick, like he was named, Grey Wind, Ghost and Summer sprang from where they lay and devoured the food before the north men, who all stared in fascination at the beasts.

In the back of her mind, Rhaenys remembered the wolves ripping into the deserters, feasting upon their insides as easily as they swallowed the meat upon the ground. Her stomach turned and slowly, she pushed her plate away. Her hand drifted to her throat and she ran her fingers along the scar.

Robb glanced her way and reached over. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’ve just lost my appetite,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly. “Bad memories.”

He smiled tightly. “If you’re sure.” With a soft kiss to the back of her hand, he turned back to Lord Cerwyn. Despite the illusion of solitude, the rest of the men watching the high table japed and cheered at the singular display of affection. Surely, they were making ribald jokes about the two of them and Rhaenys could hear a few men breaking out into a drunken rendition of The Dornishman’s Wife.

If Arianne had been there, she would have threatened their tongues out and would have nailed them to a post for good measure, but it was not the first time Rhaenys had heard it, and it would not be the last.

Robb however, clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She knew him well by now and had to lay her own hand upon his thigh, leaning close so he could hear her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked through gritted teeth in a low voice that made her shiver.

“Don’t do anything.” Rhaenys met his gaze. “Don’t. It’s nothing I’ve not heard before.”

“You are their lady,” Robb hissed, eyes as hard and cold as the wind that wailed outside. “They should not be so disrespectful.”

“And if you punish them, I will be the lady who requires her husband to fight her battles.” It hurt to say it, but Rhaenys was not about to cower behind Robb and watch men who had come to their aid disciplined. “Should any of them grow the balls to say something to my face, then I shall set them straight with no hesitation.”

Robb did not seem happy but nodded. The dark mood that hung over him did not leave for the rest of the feast and even late into the night when they finally retired.

“This is the first battle,” Robb sighed as he unlaced his doublet in their chambers. The door was locked and barred to dissuade any drunken men from making their way up to their rooms and the candles burned low. “Getting the men on my side.” Rhaenys looked up from where she sat at the vanity, dragging a brush through her hair. “Father always told me to keep the men close. To listen to them, to be both their leader and their friend.”

“And you are,” she replied, laying the brush down with a soft clink. “It is not easy to be a lord or to be a leader. There is a fine line between a strong leader and a poor friend, and a good friend but a poor leader.”

Robb crossed behind her, running his fingers through her hair and Rhaenys leant back into his touch. She missed it so desperately, simple intimacy that she had gone so long without. With a wry smile, Robb spoke. “Aye. Very few men inspire loyalty.”

“You do. I know you do.”

He leant over and pressed a kiss to her forehead in response, helping Rhaenys to her feet. “I love you. I know I say it so many times, but I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“No Robb,” she pleaded, lacing her fingers with his. “We can worry about this all in morning. Come to bed and try to get some sleep.”

In the bed, hands intertwined, Rhaenys could forget about the soldiers riding through the gates night and day, but when the morning came, so did the headache and anxiety of it all.

After Lord Cerwyn came Helman Tallhart from Torrhen’s Square with his son Benfred who could not have been any older than Robb. He had a young face and a thatch of blond hair that hung limply over his eyes, but he was far taller than she.

His father looked similar, with greying hair and a short close shaven beard, but where his son was loud and brash, Helman Tallhart considered his words before loosing them. They did share the same booming voice that startled Rhaenys plenty of times as she brought wine to her lips, nearly spilling it more than once.

He brought three hundred soldiers with him, while his brother Leobald remained at Torrhen’s square with the rest of the men. Each of those three hundred men were just as rowdy as their young lord, who seemed to live off mead.

The rest of the Lords arrived quickly and each night, another sat by Robb’s side at the feast, probing him for leadership, or flatly refusing to be another man’s to control. Maege Mormont, who Rhaenys found to be a fascinating women and her eldest daughter Dacey both wielded axes with wicked edges and like their weapons, were sharp.

Lady Mormont with frizzy grey hair that was gathered in a tight braid told him frankly that he was young enough to be her grandson and had no business giving her commands. Beside her mother, standing as tall as any man, Dacey twirled her axe in her hand, not to threaten, but simply to keep her hands busy.

Yet her husband stood tall and somehow, he broke her down. Robb did not bend; he did not shatter under the pressure. Instead he thrived. Each Lord that rode through the gates caved to the will of their liege lord. Even those who were so much older, so much more experienced slowly surrendered.

The way he spoke was familiar, cold and serious but behind it all was the same _thing_ that his father had. It was not charm, nor sheer force, but something deeper. Despite Robb never fighting a battle, he knew how to turn men to his side and standing by his side, Rhaenys had never felt prouder.

Even as Lord Hornwood tried to weasel out more land, an extra keep from him, Robb remained stoic. When Lord Umber raged and cursed about the insult of being forced to report to ‘lesser’ men, her husband was strong and silent.

The Greatjon was a man nearly twice her height and three times her width, and he towered over her and everyone else in the room.

The ring mail that he wore must have weighed at least a few stone, so thick that a sword would not be able to get through. He bellowed all the men who tried to hold him back fell to the ground hard.

“I will not be placed behind lesser men!” roared Lord Umber and even Theon flinched at the sound. “If you insult me in this way _boy,_ my men and I will return to the Last Hearth! Do not ridicule the name Umber or you will live to regret it! Don’t think that I will not order the return!”

“You are welcome to do so, my Lord,” Robb said, not looking up, Grey Wind sat at his feet while he scratched behind his ears. “And when we are done with the Lannisters, we will march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang you for oathbreakers.”

The Greatjon flung the flagon of ale across the room and in a fluid movement, kicked over one of the tables. “You’re so green boy, that you must piss grass!” Hallis moved to restrain him, but the Lord Umber flung him to the floor in a heap and drew his sword. It was larger than Ice, and uglier. There was still dried blood on the blade, though Rhaenys dreaded to think what from. “Face me boy!”

Every man in the hall leapt to their feet, hands upon their own weapons.

But Robb only reached down and snarled something. In an instant, Grey Wind had vaulted over the overturned table and landed upon the big man. His sword was thrown across the room and Grey Wind with blood still dripping from his muzzle growled.

The Greatjon was missing three fingers. Blood spurted like a fountain, soaking his ring mail and pooling upon the stone floor.

“My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord,” Robb said, looking up to the man prone upon his back. “But doubtless you only meant to cut my meat.”

Rhaenys’ breathing was still shaky when he stumbled to his feet clutching his deformed hand to his chest. She was not expected to laugh that came, loud and gleeful. “Your meat is bloody tough!”

The worry did not dissipate, even when the Greatjon was bandaged and when he went to Robb with less of an apology, more of an admission, saying that he truly was Ned Stark’s boy. The blood of the Starks from hundreds of years ago.

Rhaenys did not need a lord to tell her that her husband was a good man, that he was a man who valued honor and integrity. She didn’t need him to announce that Robb Stark was the right man to lead them south. That, she already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more canon changes! With no Catelyn taking Tyrion hostage, that meant that Jory and the others weren't killed and Ned never broke his leg. That also means that Arya has some more allies in King's Landing!  
> If there are any mistakes that you notice, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll do my best to fix them and if you have any questions or comments, feel free to let me know!   
> As always, I hope you all enjoyed, this was a fun chapter to write and I hope that it's a fun chapter to read!


	26. UPON THE WINGS OF RAVENS

Word came from the north before anything arrived from the south. While Robb held council, a raven arrived from the Wall. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont wished for Robb to know that Benjen Stark had not yet been found, and that there would be a great ranging mission up past the wall. For what, he did not say, but it must have been something worrying.

Jon, who in another life may have joined the Night’s Watch was just as troubled and spent his few free hours in the newly restored library tower, reading all that he could about _things_ beyond the wall. The only viable tales that he could find told about wildlings and creatures that seemed to climb straight out of Old Nan’s stories.

Rhaenys remained by her husband’s side when he lay the letter upon the table before the war council. On the center of the table was a map of the seven kingdoms, along with several wolf figurines, scattered throughout the northern borders.

At the news from her brother, Maege Mormont frowned and the lines in her face deepened. “My brother has always been a superstitious man, but he must have his reasons to do this.”

Wendel Manderly scoffed. “The Lord Commander has always been overly careful. Even before he joined the Watch. Yet he is wrong in this. The only thing past the wall is death and wildlings.” Lady Mormont sent a dirty look his way, but if he saw it, he did not say anything, instead the jolly smile remaining at his lips.

“Nevertheless, he has written. Not asking for help, but to simply inform all the great houses of his decision,” Robb said. “But there have been more desertions from the watch this year than there used to be.” He glanced at Rhaenys out of the corner of his eye. “Seven, and not just former brothers, but wildlings as well.”

Rhaenys swallowed hard, remembering the ragged black cloaks lying in the wolfswood buried under the snow and dirt, still attached to the bones of the deserters and the wildlings. They would be picked clean by animals now, gleaming white in the faint sun.

Lord Umber sneered and slammed the hand that was missing the three fingers on the table, making even Medger Cerwyn jump. Not Robb though, he remained stoic and still. “There have always been raids near Last Hearth, they steal our sheep and our women. It is about time that the _Lord Commander_ does something about it!”

“As he is,” Helman Tallhart interjected. “The Old Bear has his reasons for going past the Wall, but we must look south.”

“Aye, Lord Karstark has yet to arrive, but when he does, we shall march south towards Moat Cailin, and then onto Riverrun,” Robb announced. “The Lannisters have begun amassing upon the border of the Riverlands, and an attack is sure to come.”

“Riverrun?” Medger Cerwyn frowned. “We should march upon King’s Landing.”

“You forget, Lord Cerwyn,” Robb started, a dark look in his eyes, “that my mother remains there. The Lady of Winterfell and wife to your liege lord. If they are in danger, then we liberate them, and then we liberate my father.”

Roose Bolton, who had been silent throughout the entire conversation, finally spoke. His voice was soft, so quiet that the rest of the room hushed in order to hear him. “But how many soldiers shall be lost in freeing a southern keep? My men will not fight for the Tully’s.”

“You dare?” The Blackfish blustered and looked ready to draw his weapon and challenge Lord Bolton there and then, but with a look, Robb stilled him.

“They will not be fighting for the Tully’s. They will be fighting for the Lord of Winterfell, against a boy king who thinks there will not be repercussions for imprisoning the Warden of the North,” Robb said, clenching his fist so tightly that the knuckles turned white. “They will fight for the _north_.”

“Have you forgotten the last time our Lord was taken hostage?” spat the Greatjon and Rhaenys flinched as if she had been threatened. “Burned alive, while his son strangled himself trying to save him.” She could feel the stares at her, as if they were daring her to object to the statement. “Joffrey Baratheon may or may not be another Mad King, but he has still arrested Eddard Stark on a trumped up charge! He will still send his lions to attack anything that our lord holds dear. I trusted Ned when he led us during the rebellion, and I trust his son will lead us to victory again.”

“Bold words,” said Roose, milky eyes surveying the room. Compared to the bellow of Lord Umber, he spoke in a whisper. “But will you stand by them when your own son dies for a southern?”

It was that moment Rhaenys remembered the young Bolton, dead in the crypts of the Dreadfort. It was a fever that took him, or so she had been told. Roose’s only trueborn son. She did not think she had the capacity to feel sorry for him, but Rhaenys did.

“While Ned’s son leads us, I will follow as any true Northman would. While we gather beneath the banner of a direwolf, while a Stark rides with us, I will follow. As should the rest of you.”

Robb stood, palms firm against the wooden table. “The might of the Riverlands will join our forces. We will have near twenty thousand northmen, and when we reach Riverrun, there will be even more waiting to join us.” Surveying the room, Robb grew louder and Grey Wind, who had been lying placidly by his feet began to prowl around the edge of the gathered men and women. “No north man will _die_ for a southerner. If we die, we die the same. Death does not distinguish between the gods we worship or who we were born to. My father fought the last king, who ruled with fear. Now the new king seeks to do the same by silencing a great lord. If we let this happen, the north remains complacent in its own destruction.”

It was as if the Lords were awoken from a dream, shaking their heads to clear the cobwebs. Several cleared their throats but abruptly stopped when Grey Wind circled them. Rhaenys only just how terrifying the direwolf must have appeared to them, a creature born of the north, almost reaching the waist of the Greatjon, the tallest man in the room by far. She had known him since he was a pup, and he held no fear for her.

“The north remembers,” Robb said, “the north remembers the last Starks to travel south. History will not repeat itself. The armies of the Riverlands will join us and Lord Eddard will be freed from the black cells.”

The last Starks in the south were long dead. Rickard, Brandon and Lyanna, all dead beneath soft breezes and gentle sun. All killed by the dragons. Ice melts beneath the heat of fire, but there was no fire this time, only a preening child who believed that he was invincible.

Silence descended upon the room, and many seemed to cower under the weight of his gaze. They stayed quiet until her husband spoke. “Lord Karstark will be the last to arrive at Winterfell, he is less than two days away. Our army shall leave within a fortnight.”

The sound of affirmation echoed through the chambers. The council came to an end, and slowly, all filtered from the room. Robb laid a hand on her shoulder and bent so only she could hear him. “Stay, I have to talk to you.”

So Rhaenys stayed, standing by the table, staring at the letter that still remained. The last to leave was the Blackfish, with a scowl upon his face, evidently still annoyed by Roose Bolton. She could not begrudge him that, Roose was a thorny man, but also a strategist.

He frightened her, with such pale eyes that stared into her very heart. When he arrived at Winterfell, Theon had elbowed her in the ribs and whispered that his nickname was Lord Leech as they watched the men entering from the covered bridge.

“Why?” Rhaenys asked, as she stared at the banner. There had been no flayed man at her wedding, no pink bodies upon their crosses.

“Because he has a maester apply leeches upon his body. On his arms, legs, face and on his cock,” Theon snickered. “Claims that it keeps him strong and healthy. Doesn’t help his seed though. He only had one living child.”

“Stop it,” she said. “That’s unnecessary and cruel.”

Theon shrugged, dancing out of the way when she went to hit him on the arm. “It’s true. His first wife is long dead, second too. The son died before you came North. Sickness is what caused it. Lord Leech may count on his creatures to keep him healthy, but they’ve done nothing for children.” Settling himself upon a perch, he glanced behind at the horses riding through the gates. “Thought you’d know this as the Lady of Winterfell.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes, and while still looking over the hundreds of men who rode through the gates, made her way down to the Great Hall to greet Lord Bolton.

That had been several days ago, but he still unsettled her, and she was doubtless alone in her feelings. Even Robb confessed to feeling scrutinized under his gaze. He told her that he felt everything he said or did was being dissected by him, and that nothing was ever the right thing to say. The Boltons had once been kings in their own right, and rebelled against the Starks twice before being quashed, and Roose, though a loyal bannerman, seemed well aware of that.

Robb finally managed to usher Ser Brynden out of the room. “I’ve news,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him and pulling another letter from the pocket of his doublet. “There was a second raven. It came after Lord Commander Mormont’s.”

Rhaenys raised a brow and sank down into the chair. She was exhausted, and all she wanted to do was curl up in bed with Robb and pretend that the only responsibility that they had was simply to answer letters. “What did it say?” she asked, massaging her temple with her thumb. “Something that you couldn’t share with the others?”

Robb took a seat beside her, taking hold of her free hand, rubbing circles upon it. “I wanted to tell you alone.” The seal of the letter had a mermaid on it, sigil of house Manderly. The two sons were in Winterfell, having led a host of over a thousand men, but Wyman had remained at White Harbor.

Rhaenys began to chew the inside of her cheek and anticipation of waiting made her stomach turn. “What’s wrong?”

“Viserys Targaryen is dead.”

It was as if all the breath had been forced from her, and it was all Rhaenys could do to keep a straight face. “Oh.”

“Are you alright?” he asked. This was the first time that he had truly looked lost, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

She didn’t reply immediately, instead letting the words bounce about in her head. “Yes.”

Robb had a small line between his brows, a worry line, or so she had been told by Oberyn. From thinking too much. Thinking brought only frowns. “Are you sure?”

A warped laugh clawed its way up her throat and willed itself into existence. “What am I supposed to do?” She could not imagine learning about it in front of others. “If I cry for him, I’ll be branded Dragonspawn. If I stay as stone, I’m a cold bitch.” She stood, pulling her hand away from his and made her way to the window, staring out into the dark.

“Rhae,” he began, but seemed to think better of whatever it was he was planning to say, instead joining her at the window.

“Viserys died a long time ago. I know that well enough.” Rhaenys could only remember the silver hair that she was always so jealous of, the lilac eyes that shone brightly when they played together. He might as well have died the day that he left King’s Landing with his mother, she knew that she would never see him again, but still there was an ache in her heart. Another member of her family gone. “How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. All that was written is that he is dead.”

“Who told you?” Rhaenys could not bring herself to turn and look at him. There were tears gathering, tears that she wished she could simply will away. She hadn’t thought of her uncle in a terribly long time.

 _I don’t know why I’m crying_ , Rhaenys thought, furiously wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist. _I don’t know why I’m sad. Viserys has been dead to me for years._

“A raven sent from White Harbor. Lord Manderly has many friends across the Narrow Sea.” He reached over to her, laying his hand gently upon her arm. “Are you alright?”

“What of his sister? Daenerys? She was with child? Is she alright?”

“Nothing was said of her.”

“We used to play together in the Red Keep when my mother was summoned from Dragonstone. This was before Rhaella was with child, before Rhaegar died. He was four years older than I, and because Aerys wouldn’t let him interact with the smallfolk, we would chase each other through the gardens. I can’t remember much of him, only that he was a precocious little thing. Prone to tantrums if he didn’t get his way,” Rhaenys sighed. “Perhaps I am only thinking of the good things, but in my head, I see him as a boy the same age as Rickon.”

Robb wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly. “You are allowed to feel sad, Rhae. He was your family.”

“I’ve not thought of him in so long,” Rhaenys leant back into his arms. “I had come to terms with never seeing him again, but hearing that he’s dead, it just brings back memories that I thought were long gone.”

They did not speak for a long time after that, simply finding comfort in each other, until Robb finally spoke. “I will have to inform the council of this tomorrow.”

“That’s alright. I imagine they’ll be a few looking for weakness from me. At least I won’t be surprised.”

“No,” he agreed. “They will look though. For any sign of weakness. They have already begun to test me, Roose Bolton especially, and they will test you.”

“I know,’ Rhaenys said, and Robb let go of her waist, instead moving over to the table, where the letter still lay along with small tokens of wolves, representing the five thousand men each.

“With Lord Karstark’s men, we shall more than enough to meet with those at Riverrun, and more shall come south too, this is not the bulk of the army.”

“Twenty thousand northmen, fifteen thousand from the Riverlands.”

“Aye, but I do not know how many Tywin will have. The Lannisters are strong, stronger than anyone would like to admit. It was them who turned the tides at the sack of King’s Landing, Aerys might have won without them.”

“Don’t forget the Martells,” Rhaenys said. “My uncles have hated Tywin since the day word came of my mother. They won’t fight for the crown.”

“Are you so sure?” Robb asked, staring at the map like it held all the secrets of the Westeros. “I will be continuing towards the neck soon, and I cannot wait for something that might never come.”

“I’ll write to Doran,” Rhaenys said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I will wait here until I receive the reply and then I will join you at Moat Cailin, and don’t disagree with me. He will come to our aid. I know he will.”

“With how many men?”

“I’m not sure. More than ten thousand. And ships. The North has never had much of a fleet, not since Brandon the Burner. Even if the battles aren’t at sea, it could bring supplies, both to the men and to the people.”

“Supplies would be welcome.” His hand went to the small figures that represented the men. “But surely this puts your uncles in danger, being so close to King’s Landing.”

She shook her head. “Not with the mountains. Even Targaryen’s flying upon their dragons could not defeat the Dornish armies. Besides, Joffrey will be facing a war on four fronts now. The North, Dorne, Stannis from the sea and Renly from Highgarden. Even Tywin Lannister with all his coin, doesn’t have the strength to face them all.”

“Until the letter comes pledging the men, it doesn’t matter. I trust your uncles and I trust their love for you, but until it is written and until I hold proof, I can’t promise my lords that we have the men.”

“I understand, but when the letter arrives, I will join you,” Rhaenys ran her fingers over the ever present scar. “I will not wait at Winterfell, pleading for word from you.”

“And I would never ask you to,” Robb said, stopping her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. “Never.”

With a deep exhale, Rhaenys lay her head upon his shoulder. War had arrived, whether the Seven Kingdoms were prepared or not. The last war had rid a king from a throne, and nearly wiped out whole families. The smallfolk were promised peace, and security and in less than eighteen years, battle would come to Westeros again. Enough time for boys to grow into men, for mothers to birth children, for fathers to sit their babes upon the knee and tell them about the Robert’s Rebellion and the ousting of the Mad King.

So little time had passed. It sickened her. When the Targaryen’s flew across the Narrow Sea, the promise to those who bent the knee that there would be no more bloodshed.

Liars, the lot of them. So much blood had been spilt for the Iron Throne that it was a wonder that the Red Keep had not drowned beneath, sunk below a sea of blood and wasted lives. And now her husband would draw his sword and fight as well.

Rhaenys closed her eyes, trying to memorize the feel of his hand in her hers, feeling the roughened callouses from holding onto his sword while sparring, the way that his eyes, so wary and cold while speaking with the Lords softened from shards of ice to a gentle ocean after a storm when they were alone together.

“Is it selfish?” she asked brokenly, finally looking at him. “Is it selfish to want you to stay here, to live out the rest of our lives without war or strife? To want to remain in the shadow of Winterfell while everyone else fights over that damned chair?”

Robb shook his head and used to his thumb to stroke the back of her hand. “No.”

The fire flickered. A log collapsed with a righteous _crack_ , sending a plume of ash tumbling from the hearth onto the stone floor.

Pressing a kiss to her hand, Robb moved to where the ash had scattered, sweeping it back into the fire with his foot. It was hypnotizing to watch as the fire burned merrily.

 _Fire is ignorant to the destruction it causes,_ Rhaenys thought to herself, oddly detached. _It can consume and destroy, ruin lives, yet without it, every man and woman would succumb to the cold, no matter their circumstances._

A knock at the door drew her attention. It was a frantic thrum, and both glanced at each other.

Robb opened the door to see Maester Luwin looking as grey as his robes. “From King’s Landing.” He thrust a sealed letter into his hands.

She had not seen Robb go through so many emotions so quickly. Shock, confusion, fear and finally an expression so stoic that he looked like ice. Breaking the seal, he scanned the paper, eyes darting from word to word.

Rhaenys knew that he finished reading it when he crumpled the parchment in his fist. “It is from Sansa.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he was so tense that he may have snapped in two. “She has written, asking me not to take up arms. Her beloved Joffrey is simply carrying out the King’s justice. She begs me not to commit treason against the crown.” He slammed his hand down to the table with an almighty thud, ringing through the chambers. Rhaenys half expected him to rage, to shout, to curse her, but all that came was words so terribly soft that she wanted to comfort him. “They’ve poisoned her. My sister would never write such a thing, never call our father a traitor.”

The letter fell to the table, wrinkled and fragile. Rhaenys could see some of the words, and ink splotches on the paper from where she must have paused when writing it. Maester Luwin examined it too.

“They aren’t Lady Sansa’s words,” he said. This letter comes from the tongues of the Lions.”

Robb did not look up, simply staring at the tiny wooden figurines with wolf heads still sequestered in the north. “The lions have their claws in my father and sisters, and I have allowed it for far too long. We march in a week.”

Gone was her husband, the man who had comforted her in a moment of weakness, who held her close to him and whispered words of affection. Instead Robb the Lord stood before them, who would bring Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to their knees.

“Write to your uncles Rhaenys,” he said, light illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Send it tonight.”

So, the letter was written and tied to Maester Luwin’s best raven with wings so black that it blended into the night sky.

Two days hence, Lord Karstark arrived with his sons, riding tall through the gates, banner whipping in the wind. The bright white sunburst reminded her of the Martell sun and spear, and as she watched Rickard dismount from his horse, Rhaenys felt a twinge of fear. They would leave soon.

Again, she rehearsed their plan in her head. Robb would ride out, the Lords by his side. Almost twenty thousand northerners heading to the neck, heading south, some never to return home. Theon would join him, the kraken proud upon his chest. Roose Bolton, Jon Umber, Ser Brynden Tully, Maege Mormont and countless others would take their place along their liege lord.

Jon was to stay with her until the reply came from Doran. “There’s no man I trust more,” Robb said, serious as death. “No man that Rhaenys trusts more.”

He nodded solemnly.

Hallis would remain too, part of the escort of eight men that would ride to Moat Cailin with her. It struck Rhaenys as she watched the men train that they were all so young, some barely older than Arya. Yet they were ready to defend their lord, to save Eddard Stark.

The last war loomed large in her mind, of all who died, innocent or not. Old or young. Soldier, smallfolk or noble. It was always there, even as she lay in bed, wrapped in her husband’s arms. The catastrophic losses stung her heart, even ones that had only just been revealed.

Rhaenys did not know what she was thinking when she ventured into the godswood the day they were due to march out. It was no place for a southerner, no place for her, yet she dropped to her knees anyway, staring at the bloodied face in awe.

She wondered what its tears were for, what it mourned. Perhaps all the others that had been cut down to make way for the Seven, the ones still burnt because they were no longer sacred. Rhaenys bent her head and she prayed.

_The old gods are rumored to have no power below the neck, but that can’t be. The old gods should have power throughout Westeros, like they did so many years ago before the Andals._

_I’m not of the North, but I beseech you to care for those who are, and for those who have been there, who have witnessed a marriage beneath the bloody canopy of the leaves._

_Protect Robb. Protect the girls, protect Lord Stark, protect Lady Catelyn. Protect Bran and Rickon. Protect Doran and Arianne and Oberyn and Ellaria and all of my cousins. Protect Jon and even Theon._

_Protect them like the Seven failed to protect my family._

Rhaenys did not know how long she stayed there, dress soaking from the snow, and flakes melting in her hair. It was only when Grey Wind nuzzled her that she realized how very cold and damp she was and rose.

Still in her wet clothes, Rhaenys watched as carts were loaded, armor was strapped on and horses were saddled. She saw each optimistic face, each grin and half-hearted laugh. Every hug between husband and wife, father and son, sister and brother was committed to memory.

The doors of the Great Hall opened and all too soon, Robb was in the yard with the rest of the men, ready to ride out of the gates of Winterfell.

It had been a dark day when Robb told Bran and Rickon that he would not remain, Rickon had raged for hours and Shaggydog had bitten three people before being subdued by Grey Wind, Ghost and Summer. He refused to say goodbye, instead sitting in the corner and glaring while tears ran down his red cheeks.

Bran just stared at Robb with dull eyes, as if he already knew that his brother was leaving before the words were spoken into existence.  He did not cry, not like Rickon. Instead he wrapped his arms around Robb and squeezed tightly. “Come back,” Bran murmured. “Promise me you’ll come back with mother and father.”

“I’ll try,” he said, ruffling Bran’s hair.

Rickon finally shuffled to the them and curled up next to Robb, laying his head on his shoulder. “Father left, and mother left, and Sansa left, and Arya left and now you’re leaving,” he sniffled. “It’s not fair.”

Robb pulled his two younger brothers close. “I’m leaving to bring back our family. I won’t come back without them. I swear.”

“Don’t lie,” Rickon said, voice half muffled. “Don’t lie.”

Robb shook his head. “I’m not lying. We’ll all come home and be together again. Remember what father used to say? The lone wolf dies.”

“But the pack survives,” they chorused dutifully, just like they had been taught as children. With one last hug and whispered word of comfort each, the two youngest Starks joined Maester Luwin by his side, watching from the covered bridge and waving a desperate goodbye to their brother.

 In the yard below, Robb and Jon said their goodbyes again, just like they had planned to so many moons ago, when Jon planned to join the watch. Only this time, there was no choice to be made.

“Take care Stark,” Jon said, embracing him. “Farewell.”

“You too Snow,” Robb replied. “Farewell.”

They did not look like brothers but watching the pair of them made Rhaenys wish that hers had survived. She had not looked like Aegon, he had been a Targaryen through and through, with violet eyes and pale hair that clung to his scalp. His skin was a shade lighter than hers and their mother’s.

They pulled apart, and Jon moved back, standing with the rest of the men who would stay. 

Finally, her husband stood before her. Rhaenys couldn’t help the tear that fell unbidden. “I have a gift for you,” Robb said, gesturing to Theon, who held an oblong shape in his hands, still wrapped in linens. Theon passed it over to him, a strangely solemn look on his face.

Rhaenys shook her head at the token. “You didn’t need to.”

He smiled sadly. “I did.” Flipping open the linens, Robb presented her with a gift.

In his hands there was a sword. The hilt was not carved like so many that she had seen, but simply plain and when he drew it from the soft leather sheath, the blade shone in the weak sun. “I had Mikken make one after Jon told me about Arya’s Needle. You told me that you did not want to be seen as a southern girl. Southern girls don’t carry swords.”

It was beautiful. Plain, but beautiful. Oberyn always told her that a weapon needed no embellishments, and that something was no more deadly with a pretty pattern.

The sheath hung from a strap, held closed with a silver buckle. “Tis nothing special, but after the wolfswood, I began thinking about getting you a weapon. When you told me about the sword you once owned, I knew.”

Robb sank down to his knee and fastened the belt, so the sword hung from her hip. His hand brushed against her thigh and then her waist, all terribly intimate, but she could not find it in herself to care. When Robb rose again, his hand found her cheek and she kissed him long and hard, like it was the last time she ever would. It was a hungry sort of kiss, the kind that only happened in their bedchamber.

“Thank you.”

“It will protect you when I can’t,” Robb whispered, kissing her lightly once more. “All the best swords have names, my love.”

“One day,” Rhaenys said. ”But not today.” The sword was a comfortable weight, one that she had not felt in so long. She had never named the sword that she received for her thirteenth nameday, but Rhaenys vowed that she would name this one. “Not today.”

Robb Stark could do no more, and simply pressed his forehead to hers and wiped away the tears. “Be safe,” she said. “Be careful. Promise me.”

Thumb stroking her cheek, he smiled half-heartedly. “I promise.”

Lips mere inches from each other, Rhaenys spoke her last words as if they could will him to stay, for everything to be okay again. For King’s Landing to simply vanish from existence are for every Stark to return to Winterfell as if they never left. For her family to be safe in Sunspear, far away from anyone who would wish to do them harm. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Sansa and Arya get a lot of screen time next chapter, and all in King's Landing shall be revealed.   
> As for Viserys, that will also be addressed soon enough, but don't forget, Rhaenys was three the last time she saw him and doesn't know what we do about him.   
> Also, potentially unrelated question, would you all prefer for me to split this into two fics? I've got nearly eighty chapters planned, and I was wondering if you'd prefer to read it in shorter instalments instead of one hulking beast of a fic.  
> Thanks for reading! If there are any mistakes, let me know and I'll fix it and if you have any questions or comments I'll try to answer as best I can! I hope you all enjoyed!


	27. BLOODIED CLAWS

Joffrey changed the royal sigil. Instead of just the crowned stag on a field of yellow, proud and tall, it was joined by a Lannister lion upon crimson blood. Any of the old banners that hung off taverns, proclaiming that the king once wet his lips in those same buildings there were torn down viciously by the gold cloaks. Arya didn’t know where they were taken, but she never saw new ones.

She wondered what it was like in the Red Keep now, with new decorations hanging from the windows. Father had once told them of when the Targaryen banners were ripped down, the three headed dragon burned like any other banner would. He didn’t say it maliciously, more like it was simply a fact. Arya knew what they used banners for sometimes, she had heard the story.

Tywin Lannister had wrapped the bodies of Princess Elia Martell and baby Aegon Targaryen in red, they said to  hide the blood. Sometimes Arya would wonder what the world would have been like if Rhaenys had joined her mother and brother, but she tried not to think about it.

Instead, Arya stared at the crowned stag and remembered Mycah and Lady and Nymeria and her father.

Anytime that Jory saw one of the new banners, he would scowl and mutter to whoever was nearby. Arya would try to listen in, but often only caught snippets of words. He said bastard quite a lot, but she rarely heard anything else.

Most of the time, only one or two of them left the makeshift shelter at a time. Jory would go on his own, Harwin too, but Alyn and Cayn would stay together, perhaps because Cayn was the oldest by far, with grey hair and whiskers. He had a son, a boy a few years older than Robb. He stayed at Winterfell and used to flirt with the serving girls just like Theon would.

Arya did not like dwelling on home, it just made her feel sick, but at night when she climbed out of the window and sat upon the roof of the house, she thought of what was past the stars, if there was anything in the blackness. She wondered if mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon and even Sansa were staring at the same sky. It made her feel closer to them all.

Father could not see them. He was locked below the earth in the black cells, where not even a sliver of light could be found. Maester Luwin had once mentioned only the worst of men were condemned to the black cells. The ones who committed treason, who tortured and maimed and killed innocents.

 _The Hound should be locked down there_ , Arya thought spitefully, remembering Mycah and what Jeyne had told her about it, that the butcher, Mycah’s father had thought his own son a slaughtered pig.  _Never to be released. He should die down there._

When she was on the roof, Jory would gather the men together and they would speak in lowered voice. They didn’t think that she could hear them, but she could. Bran had always been so much better and climbing and spying, but Arya was good enough that she could hang by the window, finding places for her feet in the gaping pits of the wall where stones had fallen free.

King’s Landing was foul and stinky, with buildings falling into ruin throughout the city, but at least they were easy to climb. At Winterfell it was a nightmare to find crevices for everybody but Bran, who could scamper upon a cliff’s face without any resistance. _Used to be able to,_ Arya mourned quietly, for all the bones in her brother’s legs had shattered when he fell from the tower.

She shimmied over to the as close to the window as she dared, just barely peeking through the window to see them all gathered away from her next to the hearth. Alyn sharpened his sword, each grate of the steel upon whetstone made her think of Ice. She wondered what had happened to it as Cayn spoke in low tones.

“All I could see at the mouth of the river was a sewage and rocks.”

The scraping stopped. “Perhaps it’s not possible to go into the Red Keep through it.”

“Perhaps,” Jory said, and she knew that he was stroking his beard. “We should go back again with Arya. She’ll be able to find it.”

“Is it safe?” Harwin asked. “They’ll be looking for her, she’s in danger. Two Stark girls are better than one.”

“She survived on the streets for a fortnight before she saw me, she could’ve survived for much longer.” Arya swelled with pride, and Jory continued speaking. “And besides, they’ll be looking for a girl in dresses, not one with a skinny little sword, ready to fight back.”

“Where did she get such a thing?”

Noncommittal grunts and Arya pressed her lips together to hide the smile, even though they could not see her. By the Seven, she missed Jon, but she couldn’t be more grateful for Needle.

“She’s just like Lyanna used to be,” said Jory almost wistfully. “The same willfulness.”

There was a loud _thunk_ of a chair falling away and a harsh voice, Cayn. “Lyanna is long dead, and Lord Stark might join her in the grave if we do not hurry.”

Arya didn’t want to hear anymore and pulled away from the window. She did not want to think of her aunt Lyanna, who lay in the crypts next to her brother and father. She had died long before Arya was born, during Robert’s Rebellion. Father didn’t like to speak of her.

Nobody did, really. When she was younger, and used to venture into the crypts, she saw the statue. It was strange to think that her aunt was only sixteen when she died, a few years older than she was. And it was frightening to think that they might kill her father too.

In the streets they would whisper it sometimes, that the old Hand of the King betrayed the King, that he would spend the rest of his days in the black cells or worse, be executed as a traitor to the realm.

Arya tried to ignore it, just like when she would ignore Septa Mordane when she was embroidering and Sansa and Jeyne when they would gossip behind their hands, but it was like a constant worry in the back of her mind that just wouldn’t go away.

She slid down the side of the building, finding foot holes and slipping her hands into cracks so small that the tips of her fingers were scratched and bloody when she reached the ground.

It was not yet dark, and there were still plenty of people milling the streets, gold cloaks and women in low cut dresses and drunkards staggering around and pissing the street.

Arya slipped by the buildings, trying to blend into the dirty walls. She had never like dresses, despite her mother and Septa Mordane trying desperately to make her look somewhat suitable, but she always found a way to tear them or sully them. Now, she wore breeches that had not been washed in days, and a tunic that had once been pure white, but now matched the mud upon ground.

She missed Winterfell and the hot springs, where they had all been taught to swim and could play, splashing each other for hours until their skin turned wrinkly and the steaming water finally felt cold.

The flakes of snow would fall and melt the moment it touched the water and her mother would pull them from the springs, worried that they would catch a chill.

Arya ducked out of the way as a woman through a bucket of waste into the streets. “Get out of here, you little rat!” she shouted, spittle flying from her mouth and Arya stumbled away, turning on her heel and heading back the same way she came.

It was not the woman that frightened her, but the fact that she had been seen. She was used to being Arya Underfoot, not a street rat who was spotted by women on the roads.

Then the gold cloaks appeared, seemingly out of nowhere and she tumbled against the wall, flattening herself desperately, hiding her face. She didn’t know if they saw her, but was not prepared to take that chance, ducking behind an alcove that was between a brothel and smiths. There was a barrel perhaps twice her size and she stayed close to it.

She did not even dare to peek out, instead keeping her head so low that she could smell the sweat on her skin.

“What are you doing out here?”

Arya’s head shot up. She didn’t have Needle with her, instead her little sword was nestled safely below the pile of blankets that she slept on. Instead of a gold cloak leering over her ready to drag her by her hair and throw her into the black cells, there was a boy not much older than she.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked again. There was ash smeared across his face, but bright blue eyes shone at her through the dirt.

“Nothing,” she blustered and rose, still keeping her back to the wall. “I’m not doing anything.”

The boy raised a thick black brow and glanced into the street. “If you say so boy.”

Arya was about to scold him and shout that she wasn’t a boy but decided against it. It was easier to be a boy than a girl, especially in the streets of King’s Landing. Instead, she simply nodded her head, while peeking over the barrel.

Leaning back, he said. “There’s nobody there anymore, even though you’re not doing anything.”

Slowly, Arya emerged and looked as well. He was right, the gold cloaks had vanished into the distance. “Thank you,” she said, and the boy inclined his head slightly. He looked oddly familiar to her, as if she had seen him before, but not him. It was no matter anyway.

“The smithy doesn’t like vagrants; I’d go if I were you.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice, and Arya scampered down the road to the little house where they were staying. By the time she climbed up to the roof once more, her heart was pounding frantically, drums beating in her chest. She had barely managed to calm herself down when Jory called her down.

It was harder to get down that time, for her hands were still shaky and her legs trembled as she slotted her feet into the gashes of the wall. Bran would never have struggled like she did.

When she tumbled through the window, they were all in the same positions as they were when she climbed on the roof in the first place. Even Alyn’s sword was still out, but the whetstone was long gone.

“We need to know where the secret entrance is,” said Jory, hands crossed over his chest. “None can find it, but you’ve been there. You’ll have to show us.”

Arya nodded once, swallowing hard.

“We’ll go on the morrow,” Harwin interjected, rising from where he had been sitting. “Sleep, it shall be a difficult day.”

The next morning, with Needle strapped to her side like a lifeline, Arya led them all down to where the sewage met the river.

“I still cannot see it,” Alyn said, trying not to slide down the bank into the water.

“It’s because you’re all old,” Arya said crossly. “Old and tall.” She bent low to the ground, probing the ground with her foot.

At the top of the slope Cayn crossed his arms over his chest, surveying the water. “Are you sure that this is where it was?”

“Yes,” Arya said as she waded into the frigid water. Water seeped into her boots and each step became heavier and heavier until she simply dragged her feet through the silt at the bottom of the river. “It’s here. Through the sewers.” She stopped and squinted, pointing to the were the raw filth emptied, brown mixing with fresh water. “There.”

Jory with his hand upon the hilt of his sword joined her in the water. “How many times have you entered here?”

“Just once,” Arya said, staring into the abyss. “And I was leaving. It’s dark, nearly impossible to see anything. You’ll need a torch or something to see anything.” She had used her hands and ears to make her way through, scraping her palms and stumbling to the ground when a rock jutting out from the side of the tunnel caught her. The sound of rushing water had been the draw to getting out, it was what she had followed all the way through.

Harwin began to wade through the water, holding a torch in his hand. “Will this do?”

Jory looked to Arya and she nodded, part of her secretly thrilled that they deferred to her. She felt terribly grown up, but smothered the smile, instead moving into the sewage pipes.

It stank like the seven hells and she nearly gagged. The smell was worse than it had been the first time she had gone through and behind her, Harwin retched.

Jory took the torch and waved it around. “How long does this go on for?”

Arya shrugged. This time she could see slightly better. The waste came up to her calves, and instead of stepping out of the water, she simply waded. “I don’t know. Miles?”

Somebody behind her huffed, but they continued to walk forwards. It felt like hours, the only sound coming from the water and heavy breathing, but the water was less deep and finally, she stepped onto hard and wonderfully dry ground.

Arya climbed up the stairs and felt along the walls of the passageway. It was hard stone, and when Harwin’s torch shone upon the walls, she could see the same pale red that had been used to build the keep around them. 

“Can’t be far now,” Jory said, breaking the silence. “We’re inside the keep.”

“We’re near the hall with the monsters,” Arya said quietly. She could remember the hulking skulls. Dragons skulls, what used to be flown by the Targaryen’s of old. “We have to be quiet now, or someone might see us.”

Harwin smothered the torch, and they plunged back into the darkness. Arya slowly ventured towards one of the doors.

“Wait,” Jory hissed. “What if someone sees us.”

Arya paused for a moment. “Stay here. I can hide, I can get out, but you can’t. Go back the way you came, and I’ll be back.”

“Absolutely not!”

She bit her lip, and turned, even though she knew that they couldn’t see her. “It’s the only way. I know the keep better than anyone else, and I won’t get caught.” That was a promise. She would never be captured by the guards milling about. “I can get to father, and I can get to Sansa.”

They weren’t happy about it, but Arya managed to wheedle a promise that they would wait in the chambers until she returned, and if she didn’t within an hour, Jory and Harwin were permitted to try and find her while Cayn and Alyn would leave King’s Landing and find reach her mother and Robb.

It might have been sheer desperation that made them agree, for she was the only one who could feasibly navigate the Red Keep, but Arya didn’t care when she slipped through the tiny slat in the wall and tumbled down onto the ground with a thump.

Arya could find the dungeons, but she was not quite sure where the black cells would be. There were few red cloaks in the halls, most of them not looking for anyone sneaking through the halls like she was.

Each time one passed her, Arya darted to another alcove, ducking behind curtains and in doorways. She was not the only person to find her way into the holdfast, and she remembered an old tale that Maester Luwin had told them a long time ago, during the Dance of the Dragons.

Two men had infiltrated the Red Keep and found the Queen Helaena and her three children. In revenge for the murder of the other Queen Rhaenyra’s son, they gave her a choice between choosing which one of her sons would die. She chose the younger, but one of the men had beheaded the elder instead.

What confused her the most about the tale was that they were a family. That both Queens were half siblings and their children cousins. Yet they fought and killed each other with such brutality, and cold efficiency. Jon Snow was her half-brother and Arya could not imagine hurting him the way that the Targaryens hurt each other.

Maester Luwin said that it was all for the Iron Throne, which was a blackened and ugly thing anyway. Nothing to fight over. Even she and Sansa did not fight over chairs.

Rhaenys’ mother and brother died for the same chair, and Rhaenys nearly did too. Arya could remember asking her about what King’s Landing was like before they left Winterfell, but Rhaenys couldn’t tell her much, only that when she was a girl, the three headed dragon hung above the throne.

Arya reached the entrance to the dungeons far quicker than she expected too and stared at it warily. Someone called Rugen was the head jailer for the black cells, but she had never seen him in person. There were others scattered around, but in the dark, with only flickering torches as a source of light, Arya didn’t think it would be terribly difficult to get down.

She was right. There were only three men, gathered with their backs to the cells, rolling dice and drinking from their tankards. They were terribly loud, which came in handy as Arya snuck past them, keeping low to the ground and holding her breath. _Quiet as a shadow,_ she thought to herself as she slipped past the men and towards the cells.

The gods must have blessed her, for the first door that she saw, although closed tightly was not locked. She pushed it open so slowly that it barely seemed to move at all. It was terribly heavy, and her arms trembled with exertion, but she could not risk being seen.

By the time it was open enough for her slip through, she was breathing heavily. Arya sucked in a breath and slid through the gap, landing with nary a sound on the straw. From the faint light, the cell was illuminated. The heavy door was not the only thing to prevent prisoners from escaping. Iron bars locked tight, along with chains thick and heavy on the ground. But that was not the only thing.

Eddard Stark was sat upon the dirtied floor with his back to the wall. His eyes were closed, and his breathing shallow and Arya could see an empty pitcher of water on the straw. The only sliver of light came from the door she opened and as it fell across the dirtied floor in a pillar, her father stirred. Around his wrists were manacles that left dried blood on his palms, so old that it had begun to turn brown.

As if even moving was an effort, he opened his eyes sluggishly. Grey met grey and Arya had to stifle a sob. He had become so gaunt that he could have been mistaken for skin and bones.

Crawling closer to the bars of the cell, Arya reached her hand through, trying to touch him. “Father?”

He didn’t move, instead letting out a weak groan, as if thought she was a dream, or a ghost. “Lyanna.” The whisper was so faint that it was more of a breath, but she heard it.

“Father, it’s me, it’s Arya.” The bars pulled against her skin, and rust dug deep, scratching her forearms and surely making her bleed. “Father.” She managed to reach his hand and touched to make him see that she was no dream, that she was real.

“Arya?” he murmured and squeezed her hand with what strength he had left. “Child, what are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to rescue you,” she said, blinking back tears. “Me and Jory and Harwin and Alyn and Cayn.”

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “No, get out before it’s too late.” His voice was raw, and she could imagine every word hurt to force out.

Arya chewed her lip. “No, not while you’re still here and Sansa is still here.”

“Sansa…” he breathed as if he had forgotten about her. “Where’s your sister?”

“Maegor’s Holdfast,” she replied with uncertainty. “I think.”

“The same place that Elia Martell and Aegon Targaryen were murdered,” he murmured. “The same place I found that little girl, hidden behind curtains.”

“Rhaenys?”

“Aye,” father replied, with a strange look in his eyes. He did not speak, but instead stared across the cell until Arya frantically shook his arm. It was then, he opened his mouth and spoke again. “Find Sansa,” he said and coughed violently. “Find your sister and get out of King’s Landing. The ship is surely swarming with Lannisters, but there are other ways to leave. Find Yoren of the Night’s Watch. He will get you out of the city.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve faced worse.”

Arya could not help but remember her uncle Brandon, long dead. He spent his last days in the dungeons of the Red Keep, before being killed in the court. Her father would not face the same fate. She wouldn’t let him. “Father, please,” she whispered. “I can find the keys to unlock the iron bars and we can go.”

“No,” he shook his head and the manacles that encircled his wrist clanged. “If I go, they might hurt your sister.”

She did not want to cry but couldn’t help the tears that squeezed from her eyes. Arya felt like her sister, who would cry over songs and stories and dirty dresses. “I can’t leave without you.”

“You can.” He wore a face of stone, and somehow, it reassured her. It was the expression that he wore when he rode to an execution, or when mother or Maester Luwin informed him of something that happened in the south. He had worn it so often in King’s Landing, his iron eyes staring deep into the souls of any. “And you will. You are my daughter Arya and always will be. You are a Stark.”

“I’m frightened. I don’t want to leave you. You always said that the lone wolf dies…”

“I’m not alone child,” said Lord Stark, and in the dark of the cell, Arya could almost believe it was true. “Now go, find your sister and get out of this accursed city.”

She couldn’t trust herself to speak. “I love you.”

“I love you too Arya." His voice trembled ever so slightly, and a tear escaped, running down her cheek.

She didn’t want to leave, each movement that she made away from the cells was stilted but her father still gave her a stern look and finally, she relented, slipping through the heavy door, and forcing it closed, cutting of the last sliver of light.

Climbing back through the black cells was harder than travelling in them, and even though the guards had not moved an inch, save to get some more mead, Arya was still cautious. She did not know how she was supposed to get into Maegor’s Holdfast from the dungeons, especially without getting caught.

Arya hovered in an alcove, behind one of the blackened suits of armor still left over from the Targaryen dynasty. She was close to the Great Hall, and could hear noises from within, swords clashing and shouts.

 _Not Jory and the others, please not Jory and the others_ , Arya prayed to herself, squishing down so that even the most eagle eyed of the gold cloaks would not be able to see her, but it was not the northerners that were causing such a commotion. It was Barristan Selmy, without his white cloak.

She frowned, as a Lannister guard cried out in pain as the old knight thrust a dagger through the chink in the armor and then man fell with a clank.

There were three swarming him, yet the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard cut through them like they were children, without even a sword.

Ser Barristan moved like a man forty years younger and strode past her when all of the men were incapacitated, moaning, writhing or simply lying still on the floor, blood seeping from their wounds.

Four others hurried from the throne room, led by the frog faced Janos Slynt, who unnerved Arya terribly. “King Joffrey wants him seized and questioned!” he wheezed and scurried after the knight, with his men following timidly, eyes on the three men prostrate on the floor.

It took one hundred breaths for more to emerge from the Great Hall and drag the gold cloaks away, and three hundred after that for servants to wash the scrub the floors. It was too late anyway, for all those who had stood before Joffrey and the Iron Throne spilt from the doors, turning their noses up to the smear of blood in the hall.

Arya watched carefully, eyes darting from woman to woman, searching for the tell-tale glint of red hair, and the straight backed walk of her sister, ever the lady.

Sansa was one of the last to leave, escorted by a single gold cloak, who walked with a purpose. He looked young, no older than her brothers with golden hair and the beginnings of a mustache growing on his upper lip, and he wore his sword like a green boy, like Arya would in the privacy of her chambers when Jon had first gifted to her. He had probably never even gotten the blade wet.

Through the commotion, Arya could hear Sansa speak. “Where are the rest of the guards?”

The boy coughed and deepened his voice in an attempt to sound slightly older. “Gone to deal with Lord Commander-“ he stopped and corrected himself, “the traitor Selmy.”

Arya glanced behind her, but saw no others, so with the so much apprehension that her hands trembled, she snuck behind them, plastered so closely to the wall that she nearly blended in with it.

They had managed to make it close to where the kitchens and cellars were when Arya made her more. Unstrapping Needle from her side, she snuck closer and closer until she brought the hilt of the sword upon his head and the guard dropped like a stone.

Sansa let out a squeak and Arya clapped her hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. “It’s me,” she whispered. “Stay quiet.”

She was not expecting the reaction from Sansa that she received, which was for her sister to turn, look her up and down and wrinkle her nose. “You smell _dreadful_.”

Arya could have cried. It had been so long since she had seen her, and it was so very like her to say such a thing. “You look southern.”

She wasn’t expected Sansa to look away in embarrassment, but she did. “Thank you. My handmaiden said that the queen would like it. It resembles one of her dresses.”

She did not care for Sansa’s dressed, and grabbed the sleeve, peeking around the corner to see if anyone was there. “We have to go now. I know a way out.” Arya began to tug her, but her sister stood fast.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Arya spat. “Father has been arrested, Robb is surely preparing for war, the Kingslayer has left the Red Keep to fight against the Riverlands! We have to go!”

Sansa shook her head. “No, we can stay. The queen will be grateful for our loyalty and I’ve written to Robb and mother and told them that it’s all perfectly fine. That we are safe, and they treat us well.”

Arya scoffed in disbelief. “Seven hells, father is in the black cells and will probably remain there forever!”

“He promised he would be merciful,” Sansa said, smoothing down a wrinkle in her skirt. “If father confessed his crime, he would be merciful and let him live.”

“Father hasn’t done anything!” Arya could not contain her anger and grasped her upper arms. “They’ve thrown him in a cell to rot for nothing! I’ve seen him! Please Sansa, we have to go.”

“The King will be merciful,” she insisted in a strained voice. “He has to be. I’m going to marry him. He can’t kill father.” A single strand of hair fell from its perfect position into her eyes. The movement that she made to push it behind her ear was the first non-rehearsed thing that she had seen her sister do.

“Yes he can! Didn’t you see what happened to everyone. They are all dead! Septa Mordane, Desmond, Vayon Poole, Sansa can’t you see what happened? They were killed by Lannisters!”

“No they weren’t.”

“Yes, they were, Sansa. I watched Hullen die. I saw him bleed out. Sansa they’ll kill us both, they’ll kill father.”

Her face crumpled and frantically, Sansa shook her head. “No they won’t.” With her lips pressed together and tears gathering in her eyes, Sansa let out a broken sob.

Lacing her fingers with her sisters, Arya spoke. “We have to go. Jory and the others will take us North, to Robb and mother.”

“What about father? If we go, he’ll be all alone and Joffrey might be upset,” Sansa bit her lip, like she was frightened someone would overhear them. “Someone might hurt father.”

“He asked me to get you, and to get out of King’s Landing. He promised that he would be fine.”

“But what if he’s lying? What if he’s not fine? Joffrey promised that he would be safe, I begged him to spare father and he said that he would. He might not keep father safe if I leave. If I stay and become his queen, he’ll just send him into exile for a few years, and everything will be fine. We’ll get married and father will come back, and I’ll be queen.”

“What about Jeyne Poole?” Arya asked, frantically looking around for guards that would surely be coming soon. She was running out of options, out of things to convince her sister to come with her. She held no love for the stewards daughter, but she had yet to see her. “Where’s Jeyne?”

Sansa inhaled sharply, almost as if she had forgotten about her. “I don’t know. She was in my room, and I asked about her Lord Baelish said he would take her, and I don’t know where she went. She’s gone now,” she trailed off and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“We’re going home, we have to go home. Jory and the others are waiting for us, we have to go Sansa. Please. Let’s go home.”

Sansa nibbled on her lip like she was six years old once more, desperate for her mother and father to give her a reassuring hug again. “But Joffrey promised…”

“Please. If you don’t come for me, come for father. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

It was like a fire had been lit, and the light suddenly appeared in her sister eyes. She was a Stark, and a wolf and would not abandon her family. Precisely, her sister smoothed down her skirts and took Arya’s hand like a lifeline, squeezing tightly. "For father."

The worry that filled her belly was lifted for just a moment as Arya pushed Sansa behind one of the great pillars as a guard passed by with a leisurely stroll.

“Wait. There is a passage way near the cellars. Jory and the others are waiting for us there.”

Sansa looked dubious but forced a nod, stepping out into the corridor before Arya could pull her back into the alcove. Both held their breath, silent as death.

“There!” a shout rang through the halls. “She’s there!”

Arya did not have time to process what had happened. All she could think was that they had to get to the cellars, they had to get to the monsters.

She dragged Sansa after her, each time she tripped over her heavy dress slowing them down and allowing the gold cloaks to come ever closer. The clank of their armor and unsheathing of swords echoed through Arya’s head, and she couldn’t help but think of Syrio Forel.

“This way,” Arya cried and pushed her towards the room. There was a slat in the wall, the same that she had crawled through to get into the keep at chest level, and no wider than the length of her forearm. “I’ll go first, you follow!”

Arya climbed through the narrow space, sucking in her belly and not even daring to breathe. She wiggled frantically and tumbled to the ground, Needle spilling from its sheath.

Sansa had begun forcing herself through, but her skirts bunched and were so voluminous that they hindered her movements. “I can’t get through Arya; I can’t get through!” Panic filled her voice and Arya reached through the slat, grasping her hands.

“I’ll pull you through, try again!”

Hauling the bulk of her dress up, Sansa tried to force herself through again, but fell backwards, hand nearly slipping through Arya’s grasp. She cried out in pain, and it was then that Arya knew that they had been caught.

“Sansa!” she sobbed as her sister was jerked backwards. Their hands so tightly clasped began to slip. “No! Sansa!”

Tears ran down her cheeks, but her eyes, bluer than a cloudless sky steeled just like their lord father. “Go Arya,” she whispered, and her grip loosened. “Go to mother and Robb.”

“No! No, come with me, there’s still time!” She scrabbled at her hand, leaving behind angry red scores on her unblemished skin. “Fight them! You have to! Don’t be stupid!”

As still as a statue, Sansa squeezed Arya’s hand tightly. “Go, _please_!”

The noise from the guards grew deafening and Sansa cried out in pain. Her arm grew taut as _someone_ pulled her away. Arya could not even scream as the clash of metal on metal was too loud. She tried so hard to hold on, desperate and terrified, but her sister swallowed whatever words lingered and simply let go.

Sansa Stark vanished into the darkness like a candle blown out by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspend your disbelief for just a moment at Arya managing to sneak around the Red Keep, I know it sounds super unlikely! (Also remember that Rugen, the head gaoler is an alias for Varys and that's why it was so easy to get into the black cells!) I spent way too long on the ASOIAF wiki in order to get the facts right, but what is fanfic but the stretching of canon!  
> You know the drill, any error, questions or comments, I'll do my best to answer! I hope you all enjoyed!


	28. LIONS

Sansa's skirts had been shredded to ribbons when the gold cloaks hauled her in front of the Iron Throne, shivering and terrified. Along her arms were bloody crescents from where Arya had held her so tightly, refusing to even entertain the thought of letting go.

She could hardly see past her cloud of hair, which had been so perfect in the morning. It was in disarray around her face and Sansa already knew that her cheeks were bright red. She must have looked utterly disgraceful, and even the Queen’s eyes widened at the sight of her.

A moon ago, King Robert had sat on the throne and her father had been at his side as the hand of the king. Septa Mordane had hovered and watched her embroider, Arya was with her dancing master and prince Joffrey had been so gallant, offering to escort her around the gardens, handing her roses and smiling ever so handsomely.

The gold cloaks gripped her arms tightly and forced her to her knees, the gold cloaks pushed her down hard and Sansa whimpered, nearly slamming her face into the floor. Very slowly, she looked up, half hiding behind her hair.

It was less crowded this time, with all of the men and women of the court with few titles having left after the council had been adjourned the first time. Lord Baelish sat to the side of the throne and his mockingbird pin shone. He was once her mother’s friend, he would surely protect her, keep her safe from harm. And any of the love that he showed her mother he would surely show her father and keep him safe.

Varys stood near, as well as Maester Pycelle, dwarfed in his grey robes. Of the small council, they were all that remained. Three men and the Queen.

Joffrey was gone, surely off to practice sword fighting or horse riding or whatever it was that occupied his days now that he was king. Instead, Queen Cersei stood before the throne in Lannister red and gold, looking so radiant that Sansa felt like a ragged servant girl in her torn dress. 

Sansa felt thoroughly embarrassed, and could barely look up to Queen Cersei, whose golden hair glistened in the light of the windows. It was so strange that she had knelt there, less than an hour ago, begging for her father’s life. Then Arya had appeared, and everything had gone _wrong._

Now, she was back where she began, but instead of begging for her father, she was begging for herself.

 “Little dove,” Cersei began, stepping down from the dais. The sound of her dress swishing along the floor, heavy beading and the embroidered jewels clinking together like two cups in a toast made Sansa think of the dead king. “What’s this I hear of your sister and you trying to run off?”

“I wasn’t trying to run off! Arya told me that she would hit me with her sword if I didn’t try and go with her. I didn’t mean to.”

It was obvious that Cersei didn’t believe her. Sansa hated that she was blaming her sister, but she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t want Joffrey and the Queen to think that she was frightened of them, or that she was a traitor.

 _A moment of weakness,_ Sansa resolved, justifying what had happened in her head _. A moment of fear and a moment when Arya could have told me anything and I would’ve believed her. Joffrey would never hurt father. He promised. And I promised that I would be his loving wife and that I would bare him beautiful golden haired children._

“She’s the spawn of a traitor, lies spew forth easier than the truth,” Pycelle rasped.

“I’m not lying,” she said, trying to meet their eyes. “I’m not, I swear. I didn’t want to run, but Arya hit that poor guard and she grabbed me!” Brandishing her arm, with bloody crescents still carved in her flesh, she hoped desperately that they would listen to her. “She’s jealous that nobody cares enough about her to try and find her.”

“How did she hide in the keep all this time?” asked Varys in a smooth, pleasant voice. It was if his throat was coated in honey, and every word chosen carefully to draw her in. _You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar,_ she thought, than a realization dawned on her. _Am I the fly?_

Sansa could barely bring herself to look at him, instead fixing her gaze at one of the unceremonious piles of King Robert’s hunting tapestries that had yet to be moved from the throne room. “I don’t know. She smelt terrible, so maybe she hid in the dungeons or with all of the rotten food in the kitchens, or in the stables.”

“So she did not say anything? Nothing about how she traversed the Red Keep, or where she got a weapon from?” Lord Baelish stroked his beard as he spoke, leaning forward.

Sansa shook her head.

“What did she tell you?”

“That father didn’t do anything wrong,” Sansa said with a helpless cry. “That I was stupid for wanting to stay.”

“But you know that is a lie, don’t you little dove,” Queen Cersei said. “That your father is a traitor, and that the Red Keep is the safest place that you can be.” She wasn’t wearing black anymore, Sansa noticed. When the King died, she wore black for seven days, and then wore red from that day forth. .

Cersei Lannister wore a crimson gown, with golden lions embroidered along the hem and garnets encrusted on the bodice. It was a beautiful dress, surely made of the finest Dornish silk and must have taken a hundred hours to make.

“Did your sister say anything else?” Varys’ high voice cut through her thoughts.

Sansa swallowed hard. “N-no. She just called me an idiot and told me that if I didn’t come on my own, she would hit me over the head and drag me through the corridor herself.” The hall seemed to grow hotter and Sansa flushed red. “She would’ve ruined my dress.”

Varys did not acknowledge anything that she said, instead, a vacant expression remaining on his face. His very presence gave her shivers down her spine , and the cloying sweet perfume made her sniffle.

“Don’t cry little dove,” said the Queen. “You are safe from your traitorous sister and father here. We needn’t tell Joffrey about this little issue, so long as you remain loyal.”

“I do!” Sansa exclaimed. “I am loyal to the one true King. I love King Joffrey!”

“Indeed you do,” Cersei Lannister leant over and cupped Sansa cheek with a hand. Perhaps it was intended to be gentle and motherly, but her nails were sharp like claws and they dug into her skin. “You should go to your rooms and cleanse yourself. The King will hardly want to marry a ragged creature like you.”

“Of course, your grace,” she said and curtseyed as best she could in the dress.

“One more thing, little dove,” she began to glide towards the Iron Throne but turned around. There was a smile on her blood red lips and for a split second, Sansa was reminded of a bloody maw. “Four more guards will be with you at all times. To keep you safe.”

Sansa nodded and curtseyed again while the guards surrounded her, metal scraping and clanking together.

Locked in the room, alone once more, all Sansa could think of was Lady. Lady, who was back in the North with her brothers and mother, buried in the yard of Winterfell. Her bones would stay there long after everyone was dead. Perhaps her ghost would prowl around the corridors, just like in the songs.

Even though it was Arya’s fault that Lady had died, Sansa still wished that her own direwolf Nymeria roamed free along the Trident. Maybe Arya would join her one day and run around the banks of the river, still looking for Rhaegar’s rubies.

As Sansa pulled pins from her hair, she stared in the mirror. She shouldn’t have lied to the Queen. It was wrong of her. Arya hadn’t threatened her, but Sansa told everyone that she had. Arya had said that it was the fault of the Lannisters that all of the guards had been killed as well, and she didn’t say anything about that to the small council.

It was the Red Keep that was making her do such wicked things. Such terrible things had happened in the very corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. So many men and women had died, bleeding out on the stones just like the men of Winterfell did.

She picked up silver filigree hairbrush and ran it through her hair. Sansa missed her mother, who would brush it each night until it shone like fire. She missed her father, who was alone in the black cells and even Arya, wherever she had vanished to.

Her arms and hands still stung, and there was a smear of blood where Arya’s fingernails had broken the skin. _I hope she is with Jory and the others and that they are on their way to Winterfell. I hope that she is safe, and when this is all over and I am married to Joffrey, that she will come back to King’s Landing._

It was not yet dark, but there was precious little else she could do other than sleep. Sansa was exhausted but couldn’t bring herself to climb into bed. Instead, she began to mend her dress that had been torn to ribbons by the guards when they had dragged her away from Arya. She sat there until the sun sunk down beneath the city and the maidservants entered and lit the candles. She tried to speak to them, but they ignored her, or answered with one word, yes or no.

When she had entered the throne room that morning, she had been treated the same, shunned by all those who just weeks before would smile and wish her well.

Still, she tried to be graceful, and asked how they were. In return, she received little more than a blank stare.

As the maidservants left the room, and the unmistakable sound of the door locking behind them rang through her head, Sansa stared out of the window. She did not know yet if she face North but could pretend to feel a sharp biting at her cheeks, the heavy wools that she used to wear keeping her warm and picture the grey stones of Winterfell just within her reach.

Curling up on the bed, Sansa closed her eyes, and tried to dream of the North.

 

***

 

Arya did not know how she made her way into the tunnels. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ she whispered to herself as she struggled to her feet, desperately trying to reach the room with the monsters. By the Seven, she was frightened. Even with her sword held tightly in her hand, Arya could barely put one foot in front of the other. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

 _Had Sansa been scared when they dragged her away?_ She didn’t hear any screams, only the clanking of armor. Perhaps they had knocked her unconscious, just like she had hit the boy that was supposed to be guarding her.

Syrio would be disappointed in her. He once told her that it did not matter if she was a boy or a girl, she would be a sword, but she was no weapon. She was a disgrace, unable to protect her sister. Arya bit her lip so hard that it bled, tasting coppery blood to stop herself from sobbing. She had been so close, so heartbreakingly close, only for the hope to be torn away.

Arya’s feet seemed to remember the way back to the cellars, and staggering like drunkard, she tried desperately to reach them. There were shouts coming from all around her, searching for the girl who had infiltrated the Red Keep.

By the time she reached the cellars, her tears had blinded her, and she banged on the door without care of who would hear her. “Jory! Harwin, Cayn, Alyn!”

The door flew open and she tumbled through, landing on the floor and splitting open her knee.

“Arya, child what happened?” Jory hauled her to her feet and bent to level.

“I-I found fa-father,” she sobbed, violently wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, “he couldn’t get-get out. So I went to Sansa and I was so close. I-I lost her.”

They exchanged glances, and without a word, Jory pushed her forward and they ducked into the passageway that led to the river.

Arya could not remember how long it took to run down the stairs, but only her hands steadied her, scraping against the stone. She stumbled every few steps and Harwin who was behind her kept stopping to keep her upright.

The only sound was heavy breathing and footfalls on the stone, and Arya managed to muffle her cries. Her knee throbbed, as did her lips, palms and her heart. Each step hurt, but she pushed through it.

She began to limp after some time, bad leg dragging along the dirt ground. Using Needle, she pushed herself along.

_What was happening to Sansa while she fled? What was happening to father in the black cells? Were they hurting them, starving father and hitting Sansa for trying to leave?_

As they moved farther and farther away from the Red Keep, Arya felt guilt mounting. She was abandoning her family, leaving them all alone. As she ran from the keep like a coward, her family suffered.

When she finally emerged into the river, the stench of the sewers didn’t bother her. She swam through the icy water, drying blood flaking off her knee and turning the blue a dark red were Arya passed. Her hair was plastered to her face and remained so as she climbed onto the embankment, weary and aching.

Despite the warmth of the sun, Arya shivered. Her fingers were frozen and keeping her grip on Needle became harder. Trembling, she strapped her sword to her hip.

It took no longer than an hour to get to the shelter, but more gold cloaks patrolled the streets, and Arya could see a white cloak flitting in the wind. The crowds of King’s Landing parted like they had the pox, and Meryn Trant with his droopy eyes and red beard walked through the center. He wore no helm, and his beard, uncombed and wild took priority.

He did not even look into the masses of smallfolk, acting as if they were beneath him. Arya looked away, and let him and the men who followed pass, before crossing over to where their makeshift homestead remained.

With the hearth lit and swords sheathed, Arya finally took a breath. Blood soaked the fabric of her trousers, and there was a gash. Her tunic, that had been an off white color that morning was more yellow and brown from the falling dirt and sewage.

Jory began to bandage her knee, while Arya flexed her hand around Needle. There were bruises on her hips, her upper thigh. Her palms were shredded with pieces of wood and stone embedded in the skin. There were crescents from Sansa’s nails along the inside of her wrists, matching the ones that she gave her sister.

When the bandage was tied off, she stretched, trying to stretch out the ache.

“What happened Arya?” asked Jory, sitting back on his heels.

She told them everything, hot tears running down her face. Nobody spoke until she finished, still sniffling. “Father told me to go a man of the Night’s Watch who was still in King’s Landing. His name is Yoren.”

Alyn frowned. “The Night’s Watch do not interfere. Why would you be told to go to him?”

“He’s a travelling crow,” Cayn said. “Lord Stark has spoken with the man many times. He’s loyal to the watch, but he would never turn her over to the Lannisters.”

“Aye,” Harwin agreed. “I’ve drunk with the man more than once and he’s a man of the Night’s Watch through and through and believes in his vows, but he will not tolerate injustice. I’ve heard him lament many times about the state of the watch, and the disregard from the crown. As long as it is not dangerous for him and the recruits, he will take her north.”

“What about me?” Arya blustered, ignoring the twinge in her leg. “Do I not get a say in whether I go?”

“Well what do you want to do?” asked Jory.

“I’m going to stay and save Sansa and father!” she announced, ignoring their faces.

Cayn merely shook his head, but Jory spoke. “It’s not safe child, not when you were seen. The Lannisters will be looking for you. The rest of us are presumed dead, we can move around the capital with less fear.”

“But-“

Jory silenced her with a single look. “Your father will want you to be safe, far from harm.”

Arya crossed her arms and slumped back on the rickety old chair. He was right, but she would not say so.

“It is decided then,” Jory rose from where he had squatted. “Harwin, ask around for Yoren. When you find him take Arya to him. He can get her out of King’s Landing. Now that the Lannister’s know she is here, they will be desperate to find her and keep her hostage. Go with her, and Cayn and Alyn, you go too. The more protection she can get the better.”

Alyn rubbed his beard. “What about you?”

“I will stay here, and free Lord Stark and Lady Sansa.” He said it with such confidence and pure belief that Arya could not bring herself to question it.

Harwin could. “Do you not think that the Red Keep will be twice as protected as before? That it will be far more difficult to get in to rescue them? Lord Stark told Arya to get out of King’s Landing. I think that we should follow his orders and keep her safe. Lord Robb is amassing an army to save his father, but we can save his sister.”

Arya shouted, incensed. “What about Sansa? She’s trapped there!” Her grip tightened on Needle, so much so that her knuckles turned white and the veins on the back of her hand forced themselves through her skin.

“She’ll be safe. The Queen won’t risk harming her.” Harwin seemed so sure, confident that they wouldn’t touch her sister, but Jory frowned.

“What about that sadistic bastard they want to marry her to?” Nobody replied, and so Jory continued. “I will stay.”

“As will I,” Cayn replied. “For Lord Stark. And for his daughter.”

While Arya sat next to fire, warming her aching bones, the plans were made. She couldn’t bear to listen and instead she crawled out the window and up onto the roof, ignoring the twinge of her sore knee.

Arya settled on the roof, just like she had the day before. The noise from the streets below seemed to melt away, like snow beneath the sun. She thought about the north and she thought about her family.

 She wanted Jon. Her big brother, who would hug her and tell her that everything would be alright. He would tell her that Nymeria was exploring the Riverlands, and that one day Arya would join her again, they would explore the Trident and search for rubies just like she did with Mycah.

Jon would have comforted her; he would have told her that they could stay and rescue father together. He would have held his own sword, while she held Needle and they would have fought the gold cloaks off, back to back.

The stars shone above her head, and Arya hoped that Jon was looking at them too.

 

***

Moat Cailin was eerily beautiful. There were vines creeping up and down the walls, sneaking into the gaps between the stone and wood. As Robb dismounted from his horse, he could not help but wonder what kind of keep stood before it had rotted to the three towers and a wall half collapsed under its own weight.

Still, it was the strongest position in the North, no men attacking from the south could break its defenses and it was only slightly more vulnerable from the north and east. In its prime, surely no army could take the castle, not even Aegon the Conqueror upon his dragon. Torrhen Stark, the king who knelt had pledged fealty before the defenses of Moat Cailin had been tested, but they had fought off the Andals. Father had always said that two hundred archers upon the battlements could defeat an army of ten thousand strong, and under the shadow of the rotted keep, Robb could believe it was true.  

The ride had been relatively easy until they reached the marsh lands. The snow, that had remained in the ground for most of the ride south turned to mud and trees were half sunken into the bog. Moat Cailin was only an hours ride inside the Neck, but the causeway that led through it still offered an eerie feeling to those riding through it.

Birds stopped chirping, the sun became a pale imitation of itself, trapped behind grey clouds and the only noise was the sound of water lapping against the sides of the causeway and the sound of a lizard-lion snapping up unfortunate prey that had drifted into its path.

Yet despite it all, Robb found it to be truly of the North. As they reached the end of the Kingsroad, where the causeway began to narrow, a murmur of dissent ran through the men. He didn't know whether they were uncomfortable crossing into such territory, or that coming so close to the quicksand beneath the waters frightened them. Still, he forged ahead, with Theon by his side. Even he had quieted, and instead glanced around warily, as if he feared that a beast would leap from the marsh and knock him from his horse and then devour him while he screamed.

The hour that it took to see the towers lurking in in the distance was spent in silence, and when the keep finally came into sight, he could admit the beauty in it.

He had spent nearly an hour helping unload the carts and cobble together tents for the men, but one of the crannogmen who were milling about the yard tapped his shoulder and handed him a scroll. After skimming through it, Robb called for council in the squat Gatehouse tower. It was the smallest of the lot, but still imposing, towering over him and casting a shadow over the marsh.

It did not take long for the last man to file in through to what must have been the great hall from years ago. There was a fine layer of dust upon the windows, and candles around the room had been burnt out for some time. After they had been lit, the final servants left and Roose Bolton, still in his riding cloak shut the door behind him and took his place beside the Greatjon and Maege Mormont.

The Blackfish was long gone, past the neck and all the way down to Riverrun, riding for it as soon as they had left Winterfell. He pledged to be the eyes and ears of the army and had taken a few strong men with him.

"Ser Brynden Tully has written," he began, watching the conversation die. "Riverrun is under siege by the Kingslayer and the Lannister army. He will not engage them but urges us to come quickly."

"And Lady Stark?" Maege Mormont asked, the wrinkles on her face deepening considerable. "She was in Riverrun, was she not?"

That had been one of Robb's worries when he had read the scroll at first, but his uncle had soothed his worries with a few words. "She is on her way to Moat Cailin with Rodrik Cassel. According to Ser Brynden, she shall arrive in the next few days."

Maege nodded sharply. By her side, Dacey caressed her axe, silver and bright. “And Lord Hoster Tully?”

“He was too weak to move. His son, Edmure remained by his side. They have men, but many are behind the gates. According to Ser Brynden, more Lannister’s arrive by the day.” Robb wouldn’t say it aloud, but the Mountain and his men were rumored to be joining them.

Gregor Clegane was a terrible man, an evil man. A man who took pleasure from causing pain. Robb thought of Rhaenys safe in Winterfell with Bran and Rickon, and then of mother and brother, slain by the same beast that threatened Riverrun now.

“What about supplies?” Lord Cerwyn said. “How long can they hold the siege?”

“Surely for a moon, but no longer.” They had not been prepared for an attack, and thus didn’t have enough food for all the smallfolk who fled into the keep at the sight of the encroaching army, or so said the Blackfish. “All the ravens from Riverrun are being shot down by the Lannister army, and the Kingslayer commands the host.”

“Then the Kingslayer will die commanding the host,” the Greatjon bellowed. “As he should have when he was given such a name.”

“How many men?” asked Lord Bolton, still as a calm waters.

“Ser Brynden guesses at fourteen thousand outside of Riverrun, but more along Green Fork. They have already defeated men at several keeps. Maidenpool, Darry, Stone Hedge. Lord Tywin has even arrived from the Westerlands, though we do not know if he comes claiming peace and for the North to bow to the Iron Throne, or to wipe us out.”

“Lord Tywin is brutal,” said Dacey. “He’ll not want peace. He’ll want us to bow and then to cut our throats for defiance. Don’t forget Castamere.”

There was a lull, as all those present remembered the Reynes and the Tarbecks, who rebelled against the iron rule of the Lannisters. Tywin had crushed the rebellion, leaving no trace of either house alive.

“Then we must dare to defeat him, before he defeats us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we are back in Winterfell with Rhaenys! This one wasn't my favourite to write, but it was necessary in order to further the story. There is a method to my madness, things that seem small now will come and affect the plot much later on!  
> Thanks for reading! If there are any questions, comments or mistakes, let me know! And as always, I hope you enjoyed!


	29. THE LADY OF WINTERFELL

Rhaenys felt like an imposter sitting beside the old throne of Winter on a small wooden chair and listening to the smallfolk petition her. With no Robb and Bran spending his days with Maester Luwin, it was up to her to offer solutions to the people who travelled to Winterfell.

Most were women and children, whose husbands and fathers had ridden south with Robb, though some were older men who must have fought during Robert’s Rebellion. All of them had questions, and problems that needed swift answers.

At first, she had struggled to even speak loud enough, the nerves getting the best of her, but after a few quiet words from Jon, who had grown up around people such as those petitioning her, Rhaenys managed to strengthen her voice.

There was rarely anything else but pleas for more grain, for prices to be lowered, for word of their families, as many were not literate. She did what she could, ordering food to be distributed to those waiting to speak, trying to be lenient without being weak and bending to their will.

Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. The words of her mother’s house seemed particularly apt as she straightened her back and raised her chin. It was impossible to please them all, and to give them what they so desperately wanted, yet she tried as well as she could.

Hallis offered to train some of the young men that were not yet old enough to go to war as guardsmen, giving them a place at the keep. Rhaenys organized for the bakers to take on more apprentices to make more bread and wrote to Wyman Manderly of White Harbor to increase the deliveries of grain.

With the war in the south, there was a need to stockpile supplies. There was little she could do for the women seeking news, but she wrote down each name diligently, and had Maester Luwin send a letter to Moat Cailin that contained them all, so that when a reply came, she could assure the women that their families were safe.

It was easier to balance and to offer hope to them when she knew that there had yet to be any fighting. The only battle had been one of words, with furious letters demanding fealty arriving at Winterfell from Joffrey and his mother. They spoke of his desire for all of the Starks to go south and pledge their devotion and to disavow their traitorous father. Even Bran had been summoned, and she had too. It barely mentioned her, only referring to Rhaenys as _the wife of Robb Stark._

The letter had been written with a furious hand, and there were splatters of ink along the edges, smudging the words every so often. At the very bottom, Joffrey had signed childishly, with his worse writing than Rickon.

She had crumpled it in her hand and threw it into the fire, watching as the flames consumed word after word, until mere ashes remained.

Other letters came from the Lord of Winterfell, formal and strained, telling them of the siege of Riverrun and that the Lannister army had begun to sack keeps in below the Neck.

Rhaenys could barely remember the last one that she lived through, and she could barely imagine the terror of those living in them. She had been too young to realize what exactly had been happening, but she could remember her mother and her screams.

So she did what she could for the smallfolk in the north, trying to play the role of their lady.

Only once came someone claiming that a crime had been committed. Stealing. It was then that Rhaenys deferred to Hallis and Jon, who had more experience with such things.

The accused; a man older than Lord Stark, admitted his guilt, claiming that he had been driven to it by hunger and the need to feed his family. He pleaded for mercy, begging not to go to the wall.

“I’m the only one to feed my family m’lady, if I go to the wall they’ll starve. Any punishment is fair, but please not the wall.” He had watery grey eyes and a trembling bottom lip, with a black beard streaked with grey. “I had to, to keep them alive.”

Rhaenys’ stomach churned. An aching feeling of responsibility and guilt mixed together. If Lord Stark was presiding, he would have given the punishment justly without even thinking. Even Robb would know the correct penalty for such a thing.

If she were in the same position, she would have done the same to help her family and could not find it in herself to chastise him.

Both Hallis and Jon agreed that he was a thief, and despite it being a just reason, he still had stolen from others. The victims were equally as impoverished. A widow and her sons, a baker whose bread was his livelihood.

“Customarily, the punishment for thievery is the loss of a finger,” Jon said quietly. “Or the whole hand. But others have been sent to the wall, or even had their noses sliced off.”

Rhaenys knew that, and seen a few milling around Wintertown, missing their little fingers. Some even with more than one missing digit, with meant they had yet to learn their lessons. Not many lost the entire hand and lesser had lost a nose, but she had heard that in the south, under Robert’s rule, thievery was tolerated more, but those caught were treated far more harshly, sent to the wall or simply executed without a trial for taking a loaf of bread. Then again, smugglers used to be burnt to death under Aerys' rule. She could remember hearing the screams.

“M’lady, what do you think?” Hallis asked from his place at her other side. “He must be punished for his crime, lest others think that you are weak and let thievery go unpunished.”

Rhaenys didn’t want to think of the penalty. She had never been in a situation where she had to steal, but the desperation in the man’s voice was enough to make her feel guilty for what had to happen.

However, she could not simply chastise him and send him away. He committed a crime and needed to accept the consequences. If others heard that she could not uphold the laws, there would be more stealing, more rape and more murder.

Rhaenys dug her nails into the seat and began to chew at the inside of her cheek.

“M’lady?” Hallis asked again, keeping his voice low so that only she could hear. “What do you wish to do?”

She took a deep breath, before turning to Hallis. “He knows there will be a punishment, but I would prefer to be lenient. He cannot pay a fine, yet taking the entire finger is too much.”

Jon crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowed. “So what do you think the penalty should be?”

She took a deep breath, testing the words on her tongue. “Take the tip of his finger.”

So the man was brought forward, offered a swig of Arbor Gold and a piece of wood to lodge between his teeth. His hand was laid flat against a bloodstained table, with score marks from previous amputations. In the back of her mind, Rhaenys could remember the old saying of Lord Stark. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

Hallis pulled a knife from his belt and advanced to the men, who despite the fear that resided in his eyes, seemed prepared. He didn’t shake, nor cry for mercy. Instead, he was resigned to his fate. His palm was flat against the table fingers spread wide.

“Wait,” she said to Hallis as he stepped down from the dais. “I’ll do it. Whoever passes the sentence shall swing the sword.”

“Are you sure m’lady? It is bloody work.”

Her chest was tight. “I am sure.” She stood and took the hilt of the outstretched knife. It was sharp and bright, the light from the windows reflecting off the blade. It was far from the first weapon that she had wielded and the sword that Robb had given her was in their chambers, but still, she took a moment to steal her nerve.

The man she had killed in the wolfswood had posed a threat, ready to drive his knife into her heart, and the hearts of those she loved. The man whose hand was pressed against the table did not.

Rhaenys crossed over to where he was. Two guardsmen, no older than she was, held him tightly. She cleaned the knife on her dress, with two quick swipes of the fabric.

"Ready?"

"Aye m'lady," the man said in a muffled voice, for the wood was held between his teeth to stop him from crying out. "Do it."

She lay the sharp edge against the first joint of his little finger. He would lose the nail, but not much more and Maester Luwin stood to the side, ready to offer wine and to bandage it up.

She exhaled sharply and sliced the knife down in one fell swoop.

The man screamed. The veins and muscles in his neck protruded and his face went bright red. Blood spurted from the finger, leaking along the table like spilt wine. Drops landed upon her dress, and she found herself stepping away from him and letting the knife clatter upon the table.

The man's breathing came in rapid puffs as he stared at the bloody mess, where his little finger once was. The guards holding him released their grips, and Maester Luwin scurried over to him, staunching the bleeding with some pure white linens.

"A clean cut," he said, moving the finger and wrapping it in linens. "It will heal well."

Rhaenys retreated to where Jon stood. "You did well. It was a better fate than to lose a whole finger, or hand."

"Still," she said, handing him the knife, with blood dripping from the blade. "I wish that I did not have to do such a thing. What does the man do for living?"

Jon shook his head. "He didn't say."

"Can you find out?"

"Of course," Jon replied. "Why?"

"He seems to be a true Northman. If he has no occupation, perhaps we can find something for him. At least he won't have to resort to stealing again."

After all of the petitions had been heard, it was beginning to get dark and Rhaenys felt exhausted. It was not her body that hurt, but her mind.

It made her feel guilty, that a man was thanking her for taking part of his finger. Nobles stole plenty and faced no punishment at all, while people so poor that they could barely afford food and suffered while there was enough in Winterfell to feed plenty.

She summoned him to the solar after Maester Luwin had bandaged his finger and sat him down opposite her.

“Tell me about your family,” she said, lacing her hands together in her lap.

The man, whose name was revealed as Torrhen, frowned. “M’lady?”

“Your family. You mentioned a wife and children, tell me about them.”

“I’ve three daughters, all younger than you m’lady, and a son who is just a babe. My wife, she tries to teach them to read as best she can you see m’lady, but she was taught by her mother before her and forgets a lot.”

“And what do you do?”

“I used work at the mill m’lady, but begging your pardon, why are you asking?”

“Used to?”

“The miller told me that he couldn’t pay me anymore, took on his good brother instead. At first, I tried to be a sellsword, but many went south with your lord husband, and there was no other way to feed my wife and children.”

Hallis leaned forwards, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “A sellsword you say. Were you any good?”

“I can hold a sword, but little more than that.”

“With both Lord Stark in King’s Landing and Lord Robb at Moat Cailin, there is a shortage of guardsmen,” Hallis said. “It is hard work, but if Lady Rhaenys allows, I would like you to join the household guard.”

She nodded. “I allow it, should you choose to.”

He said yes empathetically, and Hallis escorted him from the room, speaking in low tones.

Rhaenys could not stand to be in the solar any longer, and followed them out, heading down the Great Hall, emptied of petitioners of the day. Sat at one of the tables was Jon with a book in his hand, Ghost by his side as always.

The wolf noticed her first, rising and padding over to her, silent as always. She stroked his great head, and scratched behinds his ears, just like Grey Wind liked.

“Rhaenys,” Jon said, rising and closing whatever it was that he had been reading. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

She took a seat opposite him and undid her braid, combing her fingers through her hair. “I haven’t eaten yet and I couldn’t stay in the solar for any longer.” She tilted her head to see the title of what he was reading, a book on the history of the Night’s Watch.

Jon nodded grey eyes solemn. “Understandable. It’s been a trying day.”

Her eyes drifted to the blood stain on the dress, now dry and a dark brown instead of vibrant red like it had been earlier. “Aye.”

“Did you speak to the man, Torrhen?”

“I did. Hallis offered him the position of a household guard. I agreed. He seemed a good man, just cursed with terrible circumstances.”

“One of many,” replied Jon. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if father had not taken me to Winterfell, if instead he had left me with my mother.” He stopped and looked away. His hand on the table was tightly clenched and she could not help but think of earlier in the day. “I’m grateful, but I don’t know anything of her. I don’t know anything about her-“

Gage brought out something to eat, meat stew, rolls and a flagon of ale each, ever wary of the direwolf who stared at him with pleading eyes and white teeth that she imagined could be quite terrifying, even if they were always around. Jon did not bring up the subject of his mother again, and she did not press it.

“How are the boys?” Rhaenys asked between sips.

He shrugged. “Alright, I suppose. Shaggydog snarled at Joseth earlier for shooing Rickon from the stables. Apparently, he wanted to take a pony south to Robb and Lady Catelyn.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure what to tell him.”

She sighed heavily, thinking back to Rickon’s last tantrum, and when his master was upset, Shaggydog was too. “I’ll ask him about it after he has a bath. He should be calm enough then to answer. What about Bran?”

“He’s well enough I suppose, with his nose in books. He’s reading about all of the wars in history. He says that he wants to help Robb with his tactics and will send him advice.”

“It’s not a war if somebody doesn’t profit,” Jon said later on while they ate supper in the hall. “That’s what father used to say. Someone always using the chaos to climb to the top at the expense of others.”

“We can only hope that they tumble back to the ground,” Rhaenys replied, tearing into a slightly stale bread roll. “Too many men take advantage of suffering and grief.”

Jon slipped a slab of meat down to Ghost, who was too big to fit under the table, and instead the direwolf lay down next to the table. The people of Winterfell were used to them now, but it awed her to see how large they were now. Shaggydog was nearly as large as Rickon was, and just as vicious when provoked.

The two youngest Starks still missed their parents and siblings. Bran became even quieter, and often stayed in the library when the smallfolk entered Winterfell. When he ran out of things to read, or simply grew tired of sitting in the tower, he would go to the godswood with Summer and Hodor. The wildling woman would tell them stories, just like Old Nan, but they would not be about the heroic Starks. Instead they were tales of the bravery of giant slayers, and ice spiders and creatures of the night that Rhaenys worried would give the boys nightmares.

They seemed to love them though, begging for more and more until Rhaenys had to put her foot down and send them both to bed.

It was what she did now, slipping into Bran’s room to say goodnight, and tell them a story.

“Tell me one then,” Rhaenys said as Rickon clambered onto the furs and curled up on his side, looking terribly expectant. “I’m sure that you’ve read about plenty.”

“Osha tells me stories about wildlings, but she calls them free folk, because they live without the laws of the kneelers.”

“Kneelers?”

“People below the wall, who kneel to the king,” Bran explained earnestly. “That’s what Osha calls them.”

“Since you know all about the free folk, how about you tell me about them. What kinds of stories does Osha tell you two?”

Rickon pulled on Bran’s tunic and whispered in his ear. Bran’s eyes widened and he nodded empathetically. “Rickon wants to tell you about the Horn of Joramun!”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Rhaenys replied and both boys gasped as if she’d said something terrible.

“You have to tell her,” Rickon pleaded, looking at his brother with a tragic expression. “Please Bran?”

Leaning back and taking a deep breath, Bran began. “A long, long, long time ago, before dragons came to Westeros, there were still wildlings beyond the wall.”

“Scary wildings, with sharp teeth like wolves, and long hair that their mothers never make them brush and they never have to have baths,” Rickon said, baring his teeth. “They only have baths in the summer, when the water is warm and there is no ice in the water.” Bran poked him in the side, and Rickon quieted.

 “And there was a wildling and his name was Joramun. They called him the King-Beyond-the-Wall because he united all the wildlings who used to fight all the time, even worse than Sansa and Arya do,” Bran continued, eyes growing wide and hands clenching the furs. “He created the horn, Osha said that he used ice and asked the children of the forest to bless it, but she said that she heard from others that he carved it from the shin of a giant, carved in ancient prayers and spells, and then kept it safe until he needed it.”

Rickon leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in her ear. “And he did need it,”

“One day, Joramun blew the horn. Osha calls it the Horn of Winter too and he blew it and all of the giants north of the Wall were woken up.”

“And they were grumpy, just like Jon when I wake him up,” interjected Rickon standing on his toes on the bed and stretching his arms up to the ceiling. “They were even bigger than Hodor!”

“They crawled out of the ground and made the entire North tremble with each step that they took. They could pull entire trees from the soil and even the roots could not grow them back.”

“And what did he use them for?”

Bran faltered. “I don’t know. Osha said that it could’ve been for anything. To subdue enemy tribes, to try and tear down the wall, maybe to fight other creatures?”

Rickon climbed into Rhaenys’ lap, curling up in her arms. “That was boring Bran. Osha told it better. Can you tell us a story about dragons Rhaenys?”

“What kind?”

“Don’t mind,” he said. “A scary one.”

She spoke about the Doom of Valyria, which had left the Targaryens as the sole dragon riders. She told them about Daenys the Dreamer and how they had relocated to Dragonstone because of her prophecy. She recounted all she knew about every hill within fifty miles exploding and how every lake boiled and turned to such corrosive acid that a single touch could burn the skin from bone.

When she had finally finished, Bran was fast asleep, and Rickon’s eyes were half closed. She scooped him up into her arms and carried him to his room, blowing out the candle and shutting the door behind her.

Rhaenys had noticed in the many times she had put them to bed, that it did not take Rickon long to fall asleep. During the day, he was terribly excitable, and Shaggydog didn’t do much to help such matters, but in his room, limbs spread over the bed in such a fashion that she did not know how he managed to stay asleep. He often kicked the furs off, and in the morning, they would be on the floor, or heaped at the foot of his bed.

Shaggydog would often be found by his side, lying with his massive black head on the ground beside the bed, snarling at anybody who dared to enter the room.

Bran was the opposite. He lay as still as death on his bed, furs piled on top of his prone form. It reminded her of the when he was asleep after the fall. But sometimes, he would murmur as he slept, asking desperately to fly.

Summer lay across the furs, lazily blinking his yellow eyes at anyone who entered. Nobody was ever fooled by the placid appearance, as the torn out throat of the catspaw who tried to kill Bran was fresh in their minds.

She did not sleep well, going to sleep when the fires were nearly burned out and waking before the sun. Rhaenys missed having Robb in her bed, feeling his skin against hers and wrapping herself in his arms.

He was always so warm, but alone in the bed, she couldn’t help but shiver. She would pile furs upon herself, burrowing into them until only the top of her head poked out, but it would not quell the chill that remained with her.

Rhaenys only permitted herself to miss him when she was alone in her chambers, and the ache would come on so suddenly that it hurt.

It had been nearly a moon since the letter to Doran had been sent, and she had been waiting terribly long to receive a reply.

Her days grew into a routine, partly comforting, partly terrifying. Petitioners arrived at Winterfell, she spoke with them and they left. She answered letters and went over the inventory and supplies in the solar as Jon or Maester Luwin sat by her side and if she was lucky, said goodnight to Bran and Rickon before returning to the solar once again by the light of the candles.

There was snow falling when she heard the clanking of the chain outside the door of the solar. She rose from the desk where she was finishing the accounts and hurried from behind the desk.

“M’lady,” the Maester called and knocked upon the door. “Your uncle has replied.”

She swung it open and without a word, Luwin handed her the scroll. The Martell sun and spear was stamped across the yellow wax, and the snow from outside had soaked the edges of the letter.

In her haste to unseal it, she accidentally tore a corner off with, but it was Doran’s hand, and she read through it frantically, eyes scanning each line. The writing was small and cramped, so close together that she had to squint to read it.

 

_Dearest niece,_

_It troubles me to hear of your news. Lord Stark is a good and honorable man. He doesn’t seem the treasonous type, and I trust that there is more to the story than what the crown has written. I am sorry for your husband and wish that I could do more, but I fear that I cannot give you all the men you need, not yet. I ask that you travel to Dorne in the coming moons, for there are things we must talk about and they are safer to speak of in person._

_Oberyn is furious about the Lannisters, and has decided, against my better judgement to join you in White Harbor. He set sail days ago, surely by the time you receive this letter he will be halfway to the North. He brings with him three thousand men, along with Obara._

_I have written to the new King, expressing my disappointment in the arrest of Lord Stark, and that of my brother. I know that it seems counterintuitive, but I swear that when you reach Dorne, it shall all make more sense._

_I am well aware that you will be disappointed by this letter, but I hope that your visit home will rectify all._

_Your loving uncle,_

_Prince Doran Martell of Dorne_

 

“My lady,” Luwin said, and Rhaenys finally exhaled. She did not realize that she had been holding her breath. “What does it say?”

She lay the letter upon the desk and sank down into the chair, hand upon her brow. “Three thousand men, and Doran has yet to commit to the cause. My uncle Oberyn took them without consulting him, and travels to White Harbor.”

Maester Luwin frowned and pulled at the collar as he was wont to do when he was nervous. “Shall I write to Lord Wyman?”

“I’ll do it, and I write to Robb. Now that I have the reply, I shall join him at Moat Cailin and intercept my uncle.”

“Very good my lady,” he said. “When do you plan to leave?”

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “Tomorrow. Do you mind fetching Jon and Hallis? I ought to speak with them.”

“Of course,” he said and backed out of the room.

Rhaenys sighed sharply, wiping under her eyes with her thumb. Her uncle was cautious and slow to choose sides, but she had not expected him to hold back. She still loved him, but she was bitterly disappointed.

Her uncle had always been one of her staunchest supporters, telling her from a young age that he would always protect her. It was a different way than Oberyn, who had wanted to protect her, shield her from any danger like he had done for Elia.

Arianne had always called her father weak. Weak for sending Rhaenys north just placate the king, weak for not seeking retribution from Tywin Lannister for his sister. Weak for grooming Quentyn for rule and skipping his eldest daughter and rightful heir completely.

Rhaenys stared at the letter, words burned into her head. It was something, three thousand men was hardly a poor showing, especially when Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown had barely contributed one hundred, but she knew that the might of Dorne was worth more than that. It had held of the Targaryens for hundreds of years, and surely Doran was not frightened of retribution from the crown.

He had surely written it in his wheeled chair, staring over the Water Gardens, feeling the sea breeze upon his face. She could not imagine that he consulted Arianne either, who would be furious if she knew the contents.

Rhaenys had slumped low in the chair when the door opened again, to Jon and Hallis. Both were half dressed, and Jon’s tunic was on inside out, while Hallis’ breeches were not tucked into his boots and they looked like they were on the feet.

“Doran had finally replied,” Rhaenys said, pushing herself up from where she sat and standing tall before them both, just like the Lady of Winterfell. “We leave for the south tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Doran is playing the long game... and in a few chapters his motivations will come to light!  
> Let me know what you thought, and if there were any glaring errors just leave a comment and I'll fix them up. As always, thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed!


	30. THROUGH THE SHADOWS

Winterfell was deserted in the morning, so empty and silent that Ghost’s paws made quiet thumping sounds against the pristine snow, leaving pawprints behind. A thin layer had fallen, and the courtyard was white. The statues of the wolves and gargoyles atop of the buildings had fluffy white caps upon them. The only tracks came from the horses, and footprints that she left in the snow.

Sometimes she forgot how beautiful it was, in the silence of the morning, before the keep truly woke. It astounded her that it was where she lived, somewhere so different than what was once her home. Snow and sand, so terribly from one another, yet just as lovely.

Rhaenys watched as the keep stirred. There was more movement. The younger guardsmen left the barracks, yawning, stretching and jostling with one another as they tightened the straps of their armor.

The serving girls also milled around, giggling and pointing. They reminded her of Sansa and Jeyne Poole when they would sew under Septa Mordane’s guidance. She wondered where they both were, whether they were safe and alive, even if it was in the Red Keep.

She wondered about Arya, probably going mad, trapped in the same chambers that she once had been as a little girl. She was a wolf, both Stark girls were. They needed freedom and the Red keep only offered only dreaded stone walls and nightmares.

All the men who had been within the walls, whether they joined the countless souls that had lost their lives in the same city.

Rhaenys found her hand at her throat, running her thumb over the scar. It was barely visible now, a mere raised white line, faded from her skin. It was a part of her now, another memory whether it be good or bad.

“Are you ready m’lady?” Hallis asked, leading Shadow out the stables by the reins.

She nodded, standing straight and tall. Striding towards Hallis, Rhaenys could feel her heart pound frantically in her chest. “I am.”

“There will be times when there is no inn to sleep in, so the night will be spent in the cold upon the ground.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Rhaenys said. “I’ve done it before, you needn’t worry. I am committed to what we must do.”

“Of course,” he said, thoroughly embarrassed and a flush ran up his neck, disappearing into his brown beard.

Her saddlebags were swung over Shadow’s back and strapped tight to stop them from jostling too much when she rode, and Rhaenys stayed out of the way while the rest of the guardsmen moved around, gathering their own things, and leading the horses around the yard.

Her sword was strapped to her waist, a comfortable weight that she had not felt in years. The sword that Oberyn had given her as a girl was made for a child, it was light and had a smaller grip that became uncomfortable the older that she grew.

This one was made for her. It was weighted perfectly, and the supple leather around the hilt molded to her hand perfectly. The beauty of it came not in ornate designs carved into it like so many other weapons wielded by lords, but it’s balance and simplicity.

It was a strong blade and seemed to leave behind a silvery arc when swung and Rhaenys adored it.

The doors of the great hall swung open with a loud _creak_ , and Jon strode through, Ghost forever his shadow. There was a heavy saddle over his shoulder. “The last time I planned to leave Winterfell, Robb convinced me to stay,” he said as he adjusted the weight turning around to face her. It was a passing comment, but one that had meaning.

“It was different back then,” Rhaenys replied, but he was too far away to hear her, so instead she spoke only to herself. “Very different…”

Ghost nosed at her skirts, then at her waist. When he was like this, she could remember the pups that all the direwolves had once been, so small and helpless. They needed to be fed with cloth dipped in goats milk. Now he was a beast that reached her waist, and she loved him for it. She tickled him behind the ears gently, just like Grey Wind used to like, and he nuzzled her, before trotting off towards Jon.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” Rhaenys turned on her heel to see Bran and Rickon watching her with wary gazes. Rickon barely contained a yawn, and rubbed his eyes with his fist, holding onto Bran’s chair. Bran’s lip trembled. “Everyone is leaving, and mother and father and the girls never said goodbye either.”

“Of course I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” she said, gathering Bran into her arms. He sniffled and pulled away, looking behind her to somebody she already knew was coming. “Neither of us would.”

Jon was by her side in an instance, dropping to his knees and bundling his younger brother up in his arms. “I love you, little brother,” he murmured and smoothed down his hair. “Soon this all will be over, and everyone will be back home.”

“Do you promise?” Bran asked, voice muffled by the fur of the cloak. “Promise before the heart tree just like father used to.”

Ruffling his hair, Jon sat back on his heels. “It is war Bran, and as much as I wish I could promise, I cannot.” Rickon let out a tiny whimper and clung to Bran’s chair. “Instead I can promise that your family will return. Soon your mother will be home and she will care for you.” He grasped their shoulders tightly. “Both of you. It will all be over.”

Rickon jumped into Jon’s arms like he was a little boy again, merely a babe who had yet to learn how to speak. “Don’t go.”

He had always been prone to rage, to shouting and screaming and kicking like a wild stallion, but with Jon, he showed only desperation and it broke her heart. Rickon did not ask his brother to stay, but instead held him tightly.

There were no words exchanged, only a familial embrace that broke apart all too soon.

“I’ll be back soon,” Rhaenys said wrapping Rickon in her arms. He only sniffled and scowled.

“Do you promise?” he asked, letting go of her and reaching out for Shaggydog, the ever present shadow. “Everyone else promises and father always said that we can’t break promises.”

“I promise that I will come back,” she said, wiping away the errant tear from his cheek with a wistful smile. “It will be just like before.”

“No it won’t,” he whispered and let go. Bran nudged him slightly, and Rickon withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to her. “Can you give this to mother?” he asked quietly. She could see the wiggly letters and uneven handwriting.

“Of course.” She folded it thrice and tucking it into her pouch of her belt.

Retreating to where Shaggydog sat, clutching his fur, Rickon’s bottom lip wobbled.

Ghost nuzzled his brothers, and retreated to his master, who led his own stallion from the stables.

Rhaenys mounted Shadow, and looked back at the boys, Rickon clinging to Shaggydog, Bran looked old beyond his years while Summer stood before him, a silent sentinel. With a fleeting smile, Rhaenys waved to them and Hallis led the horses through the gates.

Flakes of snow fell from the sky, landing in her hair, upon Shadow’s mane, on the fur of her cloak. As they rode through the portcullis and past the guards on the battlements, with Stark banners flapping against the grey granite walls.

The people of Wintertown all stopped as they rode past, inclining their heads. Children younger than Rickon pointed at the horses from where they were in their mother’s arms, some wiggled free and chased after them, giggling and screaming in delight.

Others clung to each other with baskets in their arms, smiling like children, or even staring with wide eyes.

Rhaenys could not help the laugh that flew from her lips when they passed from the town to the Kingsroad, through the woods and along the road. Hooves thumped against the frozen dirt path creating a steady drum beat that filled her mind.

It was like finally breathing again, when she rode upon Shadow. She had felt constrained for so long, surrounded by all of the Northern Lords who thought that they knew what the Targaryen girl was good for. The sudden freedom that came with riding through the North reminded her of Dorne. They held the same barren beauty, daunting wildness.

She remembered reading a book while in her chambers when she was a girl, written by Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon, _the Conquest of Dorne_. In it, he had described the sun and spear of the Martells and how truly deadly her home could be. The sun was the most dangerous of all weapons, but as Rhaenys felt the sharp, cold wind on her cheeks, she thought about the dangerous of the cold wind.

The north was just as dangerous to those not accustomed to it. So many died from fevers, being caught in the storms and simply from lack of resources. It was a worry that hung over her head as the horses slowed to a trot. Jon was by her right, reins gripped tightly in his hands as snow melted in his hair. 

Not much was brought with them on their journey. There was no cart, but merely saddlebags filled to the brim and piled on each horse. Along with Jon and Hallis, eight more of the household guards joined them on their journey.

Rhaenys brought four dresses with her, each practical for riding and plain enough that even Maester Luwin asked her if she was sure that she didn’t want to bring a spare one, just in case she was invited to sup in a keep, but it would take up too much room, and prove to be far too heavy for poor Shadow.

“Are you sure my lady?” he asked as they walked down to the tiltyard. “Surely any lords and ladies would be happy to have you in their keep. You are their lady.”

She shook her head, pushing a stray strand behind her ear. “No, it would take far too much time. I do not plan on sitting nicely at their tables while we speak about trivial things as my husband fights a war. The sooner we reach Moat Cailin the better.”

“And Prince Oberyn?” he pulled on his collar. “Will you meet with him?”

She thought back to the letter, as disappointing as it was. “He should be passing the Fingers now if the date on the letter is correct. It took me a moon to reach the North and we were hardly in a rush. Oberyn is nothing if not a soldier, he has always prided his discipline and command. His men will travel faster than most. We should meet him on the Kingsroad, or he might reach Moat Cailin mere days after.”

“He once rode with the Second Sons, did he not?”

“Aye, and also studied at the Citadel for a time. He’s a good soldier, one of the best, and he is a brilliant commander, but he has always been impulsive.” Rhaenys thought back to before the wedding, when her uncle had sparred with her husband to be much to her shock. “I love him. He’s my blood. Both of them are.”

Doran’s letter was tucked away in her saddlebag, so deeply buried beneath the bottom that she doubted that even the strongest gust of wind in the world could dislodge it, and the howling was growing fiercer.

They had ridden for so long that the sun was beginning to set, and the snow had stopped. The horses had gone on for miles with short breaks in between and even Ghost was beginning to slow down, trailing from the head of the group to beside Jon, panting slowly.

Hallis held up a hand and the Rhaenys pulled on Shadow’s reins, slowing her down. The rest of the horses slowed down behind and moved off to the side of the Kingsroad into the woods.

Rhaenys swung down from the horse, stumbling as she hit the ground. Her lower back ached and even walking made her wince. A year ago, she would have been able to ride for hours and hours without feeling sore but now there was a nagging pain that had bothered her the entire ride.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, offering an arm to steady her.

“Just aching,” she said, stretching her arms and probing a muscle in the small of her back that felt like it was tied in a knot. “Aching and tired.”

“M’lady, we’ll stop here for the night,” Hallis said, tying his horse to the branch of a tree. “Rest well, for we’ll be leaving early in the morning.”

After tying off Shadow to the same branch, Rhaenys pulled her bedroll down and lay it upon the ground, pressing down to get rid of any rocks or branches that would stop her from sleeping.

It was not her first time sleeping rough and Hallis had warned her of the possibility before they had left. She didn’t mind it, staring at the moon that still shone through the clouds.

“Somebody will have to take the first watch,” Jon said, giving his stallion a firm pat on the side. “There may be more wildlings south of the wall, or other less… moral characters.” He didn’t have to elaborate, Rhaenys knew exactly what he meant.

“I’ll do it,” she said, taking a seat on a fallen log and looking up to the other guardsmen dismounting from their own hoses. “I’ll not sleep for a while.”

Jon took a seat beside her, unsheathing his sword and laying it over his lap with a piece of oilcloth to clean it. “I’ll join you. Ghost is restless.”

She didn’t know what he meant by it but left it alone while the rest of the men laid out their own bedrolls. A fire was built and the all gathered near, letting the flames warm them beneath the furs. Hallis left them with strict instruction to wake him after a few hours before falling asleep nearly instantly.

Soon the night air was filled with the heavy breathing of sleeping northmen and Rhaenys stole the oilcloth from Jon. Her sword was yet to taste blood, yet to have it’s silvery blade marred by red, but still she ran the fabric up and down. She had always been told by Oberyn to care for her blade for that way it would never fail her when she needed it most.

“I wasn’t born in the north,” Jon said breaking the silence. He was so quiet that she nearly misheard him and had to stop polishing the sword when he spoke again. “But this will be the farthest south I’ve ever been since I was a babe.”

Rhaenys frowned, setting the cloth to the side. “Nobody ever said anything.”

“Really, I don’t know where I was born, but all I’ve ever known is Winterfell. It’s always been there.”

“Just Winterfell?”

Jon let out a heavy sigh and the light from the fire sent shadows up and down his jaw. “I’ve only been to Castle Cerwyn, Torrhen’s Square and White Harbor, and I went to Last Hearth with father once, but most consider it an insult to take a bastard anywhere. Usually, I would just stay at Winterfell and keep out of the way. It was the easiest thing to do, pretend that I don’t exist.”

Not for the first time, Rhaenys was struck by the differences of Dorne and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. She had grown up with her bastard cousins being as close as siblings, going and doing whatever the pleased. The last she had heard, Sarella was planning on heading to Oldtown to become a maester.

Her cousins had been born of many different women. Captains, Septas, whores and noblewomen and they aspired to be different things. Warriors, maesters and ladies. Never had Oberyn discouraged them. Instead, he had taken them to Sunspear and let them all grow. Even her youngest cousins were taught that they could be anything.

But Jon, Jon was seen as a stain on his father’s legendary honor. Even Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer was called more truthful than a bastard, which was a sin to say. _Was that why he wanted to join the watch? There was no stigma towards bastards by the black brothers, they are simply those who guard the realm of men._ It did not matter who you once were when someone joined the watch, criminal, lord, bastard or dragonspawn. They were all equal and brothers in arms, or at least that was what she had been told.

Sometimes Rhaenys wondered what it would be like with a brother. If Aegon had lived, what would he be like? Would he be as close to her as Jon and Robb were with each other, or would he be distant like Sansa and Arya were, bickering and fighting with one another like cats and dogs. 

She was quiet for a moment, then turned to him. “Do you still plan to join the watch?” she asked.

Jon looked thoughtful, and scratched Ghost behind the ears. “No. Not anymore. When Tyrion Lannister visited Winterfell, he told me all about the state of it. There are few good men there anymore, ones who joined out of their own volition because it was their calling. Instead they joined because they had to, because they would be executed if they didn’t. Now, the Night’s Watch is made of rapists, murderers and thieves, trusted to guard the realms of men. Perhaps it’s wrong to trust the word of a Lannister, but the way he spoke was enough to convince me. There were no japes, no cleverly worded quips hidden in his words. Instead he spoke plainly.”

“I’ve heard stories about what it used to be. Queen Alysanne once rode her dragon Silverwing up to the Wall, just to see what it was like.”

Ghost lost interest and trotted towards the woods, probably in search of some food, Jon let him go and instead wrapped his finger around the hilt of his sword. “Father called it a noble calling and it still is, but I fear that few see it as such now. Instead southerners see it as merely a northern fallacy. But the north remembers. It remembers the long night and it remembers the dangers that lurk beyond the wall.”

“All I’ve ever heard about the long night was from Old Nan. Was it as bad as she said?”

“Worse. That’s what father always used to tell us. I was still a babe when the last winter came to an end, younger than Rickon, but still the effects can be seen. There are people who lost limbs to frostbite, and children died in the cradle. There was very little to eat, and plenty starved. This was just after the rebellion, when many fighting men died, or were badly maimed. They could not farm, or work. Father was more lenient with taxes, and food was distributed often, but there were cases when there was little that he could do.” Jon shivered. “That is why there are always stores, always supplies for the storms that encroach on the people of the north.”

“And winter is coming,” Rhaenys said.

‘Winter is coming,” he echoed. As if the snows could hear him, a few soft flakes began to fall from the sky. “Tell me about your home, it might warm us both up.”

Rhaenys was wrapped in her cloak and was toasty enough, but obliged. “I was born on Dragonstone, but I was so young that I can scarce remember anything other than sounds and sensations. It used to rain fiercely, lashing against the window like a frantic drum beat. Then they sent us to King’s Landing as glorified hostages. I can remember that better. The walls were a pale red and from the balcony on the nursey you could see all the lights of the city like distant fireflies. The floors were slippery, and I used to run around in soft silken slippers as a girl and skid over the floors, running into pillars and the Kingsguard, who may as well have been stone. Then after the sack, I lived in Sunspear and the Water Gardens.”

Jon stretched back against the log and crossed his legs at the ankle. “It must have been hot.”

She laughed. “It was, and wonderfully so. Instead of furs and wool, we wore silks and sandals. There was no glass in the windows to keep out the cold, but to allow the wind into the keep. The curtains used to billow, creating shadows against the walls.”

“What was it like in the summer?”

“Devastatingly warm,” Rhaenys smiled, as if she could feel the sun beating down on her skin. “When I was little, I used to sit in the fountains of the Water Gardens with a book in my hand from morning until night simply to cool down.”

“It seems that you are cursed with the two extremes,” Jon replied, burying his hands into Ghost’s fur and scratching him behind the ears. “Either too hot or two cold.”

Beneath her hands, the thick wool turned into the light silks that she used to wear, so soft and delicate that it felt like wearing nothing at all. “I don’t mind either. In Dorne, there were breezes and the air was fresh, and here Winterfell is warm enough that I don’t freeze. Tis the beauty of a well-built keep, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Jon smiled and pulled his own cloak tighter around his body. “Do you ever wish to return to Dorne?”

“I made a promise to myself that I would return before I left. I swore it. I had not planned it for some time, but it may be sooner than I expect.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, air rushing from her lungs and mixing with the brisk wind. “My uncle Doran has asked for me to go to Dorne,” she said, tilting her head back to look at the moon still high in the sky. “He wrote that there are things that he must speak with me about.”

“Now?”

“As soon as possible.” The letter was still deep in her saddlebags, but Rhaenys had read it so many times that she didn’t need to think of the contents too hard. “He said that it would be safer to speak in person.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. Oberyn is still bringing his men and Obara joins him. I don’t need to go, but I suppose it is insatiable curiosity that makes me want to.” Doran always had his plans and had been scheming since she was a girl. He had always been more passive than Oberyn, but he always warned her that it didn’t equal compliance. “I won’t go until I consult Robb, until we reach Moat Cailin and I see my uncle and cousin again.”

Jon nodded but didn’t speak again. The conversation had been exhausted, and only silence remained.

The rest of the days passed much the same. Through the days they rode hard, stopping at inns overnight when they could, and sleeping upon the cold ground when there was little else. Jon and one of the other guardsmen, an archer called Calon often hunted for meat, spying a rabbit or two and then bringing it back to feast on, while Ghost would vanish into the trees like a specter when the sun set, and would return with a bloody maw when it rose again.

Two would stay awake into the early hours and watch for bandits and wildlings and deserters, weapons always unsheathed and ready.

Rhaenys slept with her hand upon the hilt of her sword, keeping it close at all times and the other guardsmen also stayed primed for battle.

It was like she didn’t sleep at all, and despite herself, Rhaenys found keeping her eyes open during the day to be extremely difficult. The steady sway of Shadow and the increasing heat of the south made her drowsy.

Her eyes were half closed when there came a shout that shocked her so much, she nearly slipped off the horse.

“M’lady!” called Hallis, and he turned his horse and trotted back to where she tried in vain to regain her composure. “M’lady, there are many men approaching and they bear the banner of the Martells and the Manderlys.”

“Oberyn,” she breathed, and through the trees, she could see the yellow silk borne high above the merman on the blue green ocean field. “He’s here…”

As they rode closer, Rhaenys could hear the faint cracks of branches underfoot and the steady beat of boots on the ground. It was a dull thud that filled her with anticipation.

The banners rose higher and the sun and spear of the Martells grew steadily larger until she could see horses and through the gaps in the trees. Carts rumbled like thunder and there were faint shouts that reminded her of northmen in Winterfell.

Then she saw him. Prince Oberyn was dressed in furs but somehow, they were styled in the Dornish fashion. There was a brooch in the shape of a sun holding his cloak closed. There were a few more streaks of silver in his hair than there had been the last time she saw him, but he looked the same, his armor red and bright.

She spurred Shadow and rode towards him as her hair whipped away from her face. “Uncle!” Rhaenys cried and her voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Rhaenys!” he crowed, dismounting and moving swiftly towards her.

She slid off the horse and into his arms, burying her face in the layer of furs at his neck. He smelt like Sunspear, the spices and fair weather and it felt like he had enveloped her in a cloud of it.

There had been a pit in her heart ever since she had left Dorne, and as Oberyn held her tight, Rhaenys felt the ache lessen.

He finally released her, and glanced her up and down, eyes stopping at the scar on her throat, silvery and slim. “Are you well little niece? What happened to give you such grievance?” Oberyn ran his thumb over it, and Rhaenys ducked her head, brushing away his concern.

“I’ll tell you all about it later, but now I must greet my beloved cousin.”

Obara nodded sharply and swung down from her horse. She looked suited to the north in her furs and despite her serious expression, Rhaenys could tell there was a smile lurking behind it all.

“Hello, my lady,” she said and swept Rhaenys into her arms, holding her close. “It’s wonderful to see you once more.”

“I’m far from your lady,” she smiled. Obara looked the same as ever, with a new scratch on her cheek and the spear on her back. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

“And I you.” Her eldest cousin had always been the least affectionate of them all but tolerated her embrace with dignity.

Behind Rhaenys lurked Jon and Hallis and the other guardsmen, looking uncomfortable. She moved aside and introduced them all one by one, letting them all take in the sight of the Red Viper of Dorne and his three thousand men behind him, all with weapons in their hands.

The last time the Dornish army had fought, it was with Rhaegar on the Trident and they were defeated. Her great uncle had died that day, her father had died and so had many other Dornishmen. They had lost the war against Robert Baratheon, but they had come to the aid of the northmen.

It was a thought that lingered in her mind for some time as they joined the Martell’s caravan and continued to Moat Cailin. They were only a day or two away, and the frozen ground was beginning to thaw into mud. At first Oberyn rode with his commanders, she recognized a few, Arron Qorgyle and Deziel Dalt, both would visit Sunspear when she was a girl. They were closer to the Red Viper than they were to her other uncle, but she was sure that Doran wouldn’t be pleased to know they had disobeyed him.

There was no Daemon Sand, who had once squired to her uncle, but was now a knight in his own right, no Nymeria or Tyene and surely no Sarella.

She was thinking of her cousins when Oberyn wheeled his horse around and rode beside her.

“I take it that Doran has written to you.”

Rhaenys patted the side of Shadow’s neck. “He has. He asked my forgiveness but has given me no reasoning to why I should forgive him in the first place.”

Oberyn had a stony expression on his face, and his black eyes looked more snake-like than ever. “I agree with my brother in many things, but not this,” he said. “Not when your life is on the line. There is too much at stake to forget what the Lannisters have done, and I cannot ignore what happened to your mother.”

She began to fiddle with the cuff of her dress. “He’s asked me to travel to Dorne you know, to speak with him in person. Apparently, there is too much to say over a simple letter.”

“Will you?”

“I’ll speak to Robb about it.”

“Do you defer to your husband then?”

“On the contrary,” Rhaenys said. “We defer to each other.”

Oberyn had a strange expression on his face when he spoke. “Do you love your wolf boy then little niece?”

Rhaenys smiled, looking down at the ground. “I do, but he’s hardly a boy. He’s my husband, and my partner in all things.”

“I’m pleased for you. He treats you well?”

“Of course,” Rhaenys said, staring into the distance and watching the few flakes drift from the sky. “It’s been far from easy, but I would not have it any other way.”

Oberyn seemed content enough with the answer and leant back on his horse, watching as the landscape passed him by. “Tell me about your scar, little niece. How did it happen?”

She swallowed hard. “Robb’s brother Bran was hurt badly during the King visit to Winterfell. He’s crippled now and uses a chair like Doran’s to get around, but Tyrion Lannister fashioned him a saddle so he could ride. We went on a ride and were separated from the other guardsmen. Bran and I were cornered by six wildlings and deserters.”

He made a little noise, perhaps a strangled groan and Rhaenys could see the hands holding the reins clenching tightly. “They are dead?”

“Yes.” The faded black cloak that Stiv had worn and the overwhelming smell of blood and carcasses filled her mind. “I-I killed one of them. I killed a man and I didn’t regret it.”

“Nor should you.” Oberyn snarled as if his words could yank Stiv from the seven hells so he could kill him again for laying a hand on her. “I am not proud that you had to do it. But I am proud that you remembered your lessons.”

“I could never forget them,” she said and reached over to lay her hand on his as assurance. “It was your lessons that saved my life.”

He didn’t speak, but the ferocious look on his face lessened.

With Oberyn’s army, making it to the Neck took a little longer than she expected. The Dornishmen were less used to the harsh weather, but somehow managed to push themselves through the quagmires around the causeway that led to Moat Cailin.

Rhaenys could finally sleep without a weapon in her hand. She shared a tent with Obara, letting her rest without the fear of prying eyes. Her cousin was a heavy sleeper, who would pass out the minute she lay down, but Rhaenys would lie awake and think of her husband.

With each day they grew closer to the keep, she could feel the anticipation flowering in her chest. Robb had told her that thousands of men could attack the Neck from the south and lose over half their number while the crannogmen could defend it with mere hundreds and suffer minimal casualties.

As she rode past, Rhaenys could believe it. Hallis warned all of the Martell soldiers to remain on the causeway, left they sink into the mud, or have limbs snatched and eaten by lizard-lions.

There would not just by enemies battling one another, but the elements and other predators would fight against any invaders too. The towers that loomed over the trees could be equipped with archers and as she looked up to them, she realized how vulnerable they were.

Moat Cailin was a strange, haunted place. The walls that remained were high, but some had fallen to little more than rubble. Ivy climbed up the sides of the brick, and flowers grew in the gaps between the stone.

She could imagine it abandoned, the only noise coming from the marsh or the few people that lived there, but no longer. There were people all around warming themselves by the fires that dotted the landscape, swords clanged together as they sparred. As she rode through the shadows, Rhaenys noticed all the movement stop.

Oberyn seemed to thrive off the stares, straightening his back that much more, and surveying the gathered northmen. She could see the assorted sigils upon their chests, Karstark, Bolton and Umber were the most common while others milled around in their ring mail.

Ghost darted ahead and disappeared into the fray looking for his brother, and finally, they came up to the smallest of the towers, squat and fat with a running direwolf upon a banner hanging from the battered walls, fluttering slightly in the wind.

Rhaenys was the first to dismount, sliding down from Shadow’s back and landing hard on the compact dirt. She hefted the saddlebags down and they hit the ground with an audible thump.

She was so busy hoisting the saddle off to notice the people filing from the gatehouse tower. It wasn’t until she looked up that she noticed the door of the gatehouse tower opening and men spilling from it.

Rhaenys was holding her breath as the last of the figures stepped into the fading light.

She didn’t realize that she was moving until she was directly before him. “Robb…”

He didn’t speak as he swept her into his arms. One hand cupped the back of her head as if he could pull her even closer and the other tightened around her waist. Robb’s stubble tickled her throat, and it felt so very familiar, as if they hadn’t been separated at all. They could have been in the glass gardens, sneaking away like newlyweds, or in their chambers after a trying day.

“I missed you Rhae,” he said, as if he could scarce believe she was there.

She nuzzled his cheek softly and pressed a light kiss there. “I missed you too,” she whispered. It was pure relief in her voice, and she felt so light that she thought she could simply float away.

Robb pulled away, and scanned her up and down, looking for any sign of mistreatment. Rhaenys knew that she did not look perfect, there were dark circles below her eyes, her hair was in a disarray and her dress was wrinkled, but still he looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“You’re well?” he asked, running his hand over her cheek gently.

“Aye, well enough. The journey was as I expected.” He didn’t look convinced, thumb ghosting over the scar. “And I have good news,” she said, gesturing behind her to where Oberyn was still sitting tall about his horse, Obara by his side. “My uncle has arrived from Dorne, bring with him three thousand men.”

Robb’s face changed suddenly, going from her husband to a lord. He moved past her, and towards Oberyn. “You have the gratitude of the north, prince Oberyn. And you have mine.”

Oberyn dismounted and approached, black eyes appraising the Warden of the North. “Lord Stark. When my niece wrote, I felt like I had no choice but to offer assistance.”

“Still,” Robb said. “It is greatly appreciated.”

Bursting from the crowd, Grey Wind and Ghost came racing towards her, the yellow eyes of the direwolf practically luminous. He had grown more and was as large as his brothers, reaching her waist. Rhaenys scratched behind his ears with one hand, burying her fingers in the smoke grey fur.

While she greeted Grey Wind, Jon and Robb reunited, both with wide smiles on their faces. She could not here what they spoke of, but Robb laughed loudly at something that his brother said.

Rhaenys was turning back to Shadow when someone stepped into her path. “How are my boys?” Lady Catelyn asked frantically. “Bran and Rickon, are they well?”

“They miss you desperately, but they are well.” She exhaled heavily, but Rhaenys kept speaking. “Bran uses a wheeled chair to get around. It is hard work and he has grown callouses on his palms, but he likes the independence. Rickon is doing better with his letters. He wrote this for you, he asked me to give it to you.” Rhaenys pulled out the letter from the pouch on her belt.

Her good mother’s hand was shaking as she took the letter, tracing the letters. “He could barely spell his name when I left,” she said in a small voice. “Now he can write a letter.”

She turned on her heel and hurried inside, reaching up to her cheeks to brush away tears that surely lingered, her red hair vanishing like an extinguished torch. Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel terrible pity for her good mother. Her daughters and husband were trapped in King’s Landing, her sons alone in Winterfell. If the word from Hallis was true, her father and brother were besieged in her childhood home and her eldest was forced into conducting a war.

Rhaenys didn’t know how she had kept her composure for as long as she did,

Robb moved beside her, standing silently, watching as the dornishmen mingled with the northmen, as the carts were unloaded, and the horses were led to the stables.

“I missed you,” she confessed, and he wrapped her in his arms blocking out the cold air. “I missed you so much.” She lay her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Robb only exhaled lightly as if a burden was lifted and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I missed you too Rhae.”

They stayed quiet for a little while longer, and then she turned in his arms, staring up at his face. Like her, he didn’t look like he had slept much. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he had not shaved in some time. Still, when his gaze fell to her, it softened, the blue turning from a stormy ocean to a calm one, with the sun glinting on the surf.

“There will have to be a council meeting, won’t there?” she said quietly. She had travelled for a fortnight and ached terribly. Sitting and listening to a group of men argue over the best course of action while staring at her and her uncle from the corner of their eyes was not what she wished to do until the little hours.  Rhaenys had no desire for anything other than her husband.

“Aye, there will,” he said solemnly. “But not tonight. There has already been one, and plenty of the lords will be far too difficult to round up.”

She knew that she ought to frown and insist on a council meeting but couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Are you making excuses husband?”

It was a strange juxtaposition, for Robb to have such a stern expression on his face but to speak in such a jovial tone. “I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m simply stating that Lord Karstark and his sons will be far away, and that I do not plan on disturbing Roose Bolton from whatever he is up to after dark.”

Rhaenys shuddered slightly. “I fear you may be right.”

“Of course I am, he’s called Lord Leech for a reason. I’ve spent the past few moons with these men. Believe me when I say it’s easier not to ask.” She could tell he was trying not to smile, but couldn’t hold it in. “Let us just be Robb and Rhaenys tonight. Let us be nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reunions galore! Let me know what you all thought, I love reading your comments! As always, I hope you enjoyed!


	31. THE TOLL

 

There was a certain kind of relief that came with waking to find Robb’s arms around her and her head cushioned on his chest. There was a familiar yet not uncomfortable ache between her thighs, and she stretched her legs out with a barely audible groan.

As the Lord and Lady, they had both been offered a fine set of chambers in the towers, but Rhaenys declined. There were others who needed it more than they did, those with injuries, few and far between that they were. Other Lords such as the two Manderley brothers, and Medger Cerwyn with his bad arm, had taken them at Robb’s insistence. He was young, and ought to sleep where the rest of the men rested too, and she could hardly let him out of her sight.

So, instead of chambers, both bedded down in a thin canvas tent upon a cot that was probably intended for just one man. They made do, with Rhaenys sleeping half on top of him, legs slung over his and Robb’s arms keeping her from slipping off the side of the bed.

It had been a trail to get vaguely comfortable, but she had slept in worse conditions, and anything that was off the ground was more than welcome. Sleep had come quickly in any case, after some extremely vigorous love making where she made some noises that would have made the bawdiest of bannerman flush crimson.

At first, she had buried her face in the crook of his neck, biting her own lip to stifle the cries, but in the end, she gave up on any form of modesty and moaned for all to hear.

When she woke, there was noise coming from outside the thin fabric. Steel clanked, and shouts came from the outside and despite her wish that she could simply burrow beneath the furs and ignore it all, Rhaenys knew that she would have to rise eventually.

Robb stirred slightly, letting out a weak groan. “Rhae?”

“Hmm?”

He didn’t say anything, instead wrapped his arms around her tighter and planting a light kiss to her forehead. She felt warm, protected and safe, and as the light slowly filtered through the canvas, Rhaenys could convince herself that they were still in Winterfell with no duties or worries. Alas, despite all her wishing, the faint shouts of the men from outside of the tent grew until it was like thunder.

“We’ll have to get up eventually,” she murmured, propping herself up so she leant on her elbows, “lest someone come to fetch us.” Once in Winterfell, Rickon had stormed into their chambers, demanding that they both get up. She was lucky that she was in her shift at the time as he had tried to drag the furs off the pair of them. And while Rhaenys was sure there would not be a repeat of _that,_ it still lingered in the back of her mind. “Robb, we must get up.”

“I know,” he replied in a sleepy voice, opening his eyes a tiny bit so a sliver of blue peeked through. “I know, but let me savor this for a few moments longer. I have not slept well since you have been from my arms, and now I have you back, I will not haste to see you parted from them again.”

Rhaenys pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and ran her finger tips lightly over the stubble upon his jaw. “Sweet words my love, but words none the less. Now is time for action.”

“Aye, action,” he echoed.

She dragged herself from the cot, heaving Robb’s arm off her waist and letting it fall. “Come, the Lords will be saying that you’ve gone soft with the return of your wife.”

“Let them,” he said, finally sitting up straight in the cot with the furs gathered around his waist and legs, though she could tell that he would much rather be lying down. “I’d gladly spend the rest of my days in bed with you.”

She smiled softly, and sat back down on the cot, letting him wrap his arms around her waist, pressing a light peck to her lips. “As would I,” she began, reaching up and running her thumb over his cheek, feeling the prickly beginnings of a beard, “but we have much to do, and much to discuss.”

Robb sighed and threw off the furs. “I suppose I still must call the Lords for a council meeting.”

“Surely their bickering will shock you awake.”

“You are right there,” he said, pulling his breeches over his hips and tightening the heavy belt that held his long sword. “They can sometimes argue worse than Sansa and Arya, but not over things such as embroidery or the name of a direwolf…” Robb trailed off as if he had forgotten the fate of his sister’s wolves.

Lady lay in the lichyard beneath the dirt, while Nymeria was free in the Riverlands away from Arya. _Did Grey Wind feel the loss of his sisters?_ Rhaenys wondered as she slid her arms through the sleeves of her gown. _Did he know when the sword had cut open Lady’s throat?_

She did not have to look at her husband to know he was thinking the same thing. The killing of an innocent creature upon the order of Cersei Lannister, and her want to wear Lady around her neck as a trophy. The same woman held his sisters, and his father to do with what she wanted.

He sobered quickly and finished dressing even faster than she, lacing up the back of her dress where she couldn’t reach and even tightening her sword around her waist. She had still yet to find a name that she liked, despite Robb insisting that all weapons needed names.

It was like naming Shadow all over again, instead this time there was no Bran to spout helpful suggestions. This time, the ideas that danced through her mind were shot down before they could even take root.

They tidied the tent in a companionable silence. Now that the armies had arrived, Robb and the other Lords planned to travel to Riverrun to liberate it from the Lannister armies. Edmure and Hoster Tully were both held as hostages, along with several other men and women of the Riverlands. They were to leave by midday and rid through the neck and into the south.

It was Ser Brynden who gave them information. He was the commander of Robb’s outriders and delivered valuable knowledge, sending messengers with coded letters, ravens with false truths to Riverrun to be shot down by the Lannisters and to confuse them with their intent.

In order to reach the Riverlands, the army would have to cross at the Green Fork and bargain with Walder Frey.

There were always rumors that he had been a loyalist during Robert’s Rebellion, that he had been late to the Battle of the Trident, leaving nobody aware of whether he would fight for the Targaryens or the Baratheons. Robb told her that his grandfather called him the Late Lord Frey.

It wouldn’t take long, less than a fortnight of riding to reach the Twins, and then another fortnight to reach the outskirts of Riverrun, then a battle. With Oberyn’s men, all well trained and powerful fighters, perhaps the tide would be turned.

“Robb,” she started as she folded her thin white shift in two and stowed it in a travel chest. “Robb, I have something to tell you.”

“Hmm?” He was gathering up his own papers, battleplans and supplies chains that she had so helpfully distracted him from the night before that were spread haphazardly over a propped up table that listed to the right.

She took a deep breath and turned around. “Doran has asked for me to travel to Dorne.”

“What?” Robb looked up, a line appearing between his brows.

“In the letter, the one that I waited for in Winterfell, he told me that he had much to say that couldn’t simply be professed over paper. He has asked me to sail to Sunspear.”

Leaving the papers where they lay, he crossed to where she stood and lay a hand on her waist. “Were you planning on telling me last night?”

A flash of heat ran up her throat, up to her cheeks and she turned red. “I was going to mention it, but we got a bit… occupied.”

“You still have the letter?”

“I do.” She hurried over to where her saddlebags were piled haphazardly in the corner of the tent and after a few moments of scrabbling around through her things, extracted it triumphantly.

Robb’s eyes scanned it, darting from word to word, line to line. It took him mere moments to finish and when he did, he looked up to her with a concerned gaze.

“What do you wish to do?”

“Doran would not ask me to come for no reason,” she said, moving to where he stood still clutching the letter close. “He’s a cautious man, a clever man and he does not condone unnecessary risk. If there is something so important that he is asking me to travel all the way to Dorne, I must at least consider it.”

He exhaled slowly and passed her the paper, crinkling in her grasp. “He says he is disappointed in my father’s arrest. Disappointed?”

She shrugged helplessly, and the braid that her hair was gathered in slipped from her shoulder and brushed down her back. “I know my uncle, and he is a firm believer in justice. I think his words were prepared for an interception, which is why he wants me in Dorne. I don’t know what it is that is so important that he has asked me to go to Sunspear, but it is surely something that could even change the tides of this war.”

It was an age before Robb spoke, wrapping his arms around her waist and locking his hands together. “I do not want to see you go,” he confessed in a low voice, “but I understand that it is your duty and that he is your family. If you wish to stay, I will welcome it, but I will not stop you from leaving-”

“Robb-“ she interrupted, but he stopped her with a small brush of his thumb on her hips.

“Let me finish,” Robb replied not unkindly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All I ask is that you take someone with you. Someone that we both trust. I know that I cannot go with you, but if you do choose to go, ask Jon, or Dacey Mormont or even Smalljon Umber. If I can’t protect you, they must.”

“I do not need protection, my love,” Rhaenys murmured as his fingers rubbed comforting circles on her waist. “You have made sure of it.” The sword hung heavy as she spoke. Rhaenys could feel his smile and a pool of warmth spread all the way from her toes up to the top of her head.

“No,” he said softly. “I suppose you don’t.”

“I don’t know yet if I will go,” Rhaenys breathed. “With Oberyn’s men, there is twenty three thousand soldiers. If Riverrun can be freed, there will be more still and Ser Brynden said that Walder Frey holds four thousand, but what if Doran wishes to pledge more men? Dorne trains well and while they do not have much of a fleet, not since Nymeria burned her ships they have men.”

“How many would you guess?” asked Robb, thumb moving incessantly.

“Without the men brought by Oberyn, near twelve thousand, but I can’t be sure.”

“That is still many, over thirty thousand together with the Riverlanders. I do not know the strength of the Lannister armies, but that at least would match them, if not outnumber them.” The movement stopped, and he let go of her, turning to the table, still overrun with papers. “But your uncle’s motives remain unknown for now.”

“Should we call the council?”

He shook his head, and reached for her hand, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Tonight. There is too much to do now, and far too much to consider. It will give us both time to think and you can discuss Doran’s motive’s with your other uncle. Surely he will give more insight than I ever could.”

Rhaenys smiled slightly. “I would like to speak with him some more,” she said and plucked the letter from where it lay, stowing it back in the saddlebags, ready to be withdrawn again when needed. “And Obara too, it has been so long since I’ve seen them all.”

After a sweet kiss, the kind that made her grin like a besotted fool when they split apart, both of them turned away, going to fulfill their different duties. Rhaenys needed to discuss such matters with Oberyn, and Robb walked through the camp, helping the men take down the tents and carrying the supplies onto the carts, spreading the word that once they finished riding for the day, there would be a meeting between the Lords once more.

They left Moat Cailin quickly, Robb rode alongside Jon, both keeping their voices low. She had heard that he would ride at the front of the column with somebody new each day, much like how his father would do so at Winterfell, listening to the complaints or worries of all those he resided in the keep.

She did not know what Robb and his brother spoke about, but their faces were serious. Rhaenys stayed alongside Lady Catelyn, who pried for details of Rickon, Bran and how they were fairing in Winterfell.

She told her good mother of Bran’s chair and how he made his way around the keep, of his saddle that allowed him to ride around the tiltyard, and how he liked to read in the library with Maester Luwin, and of Rickon’s constant want of stories, whether it be from Old Nan or Maester Luwin or one of the guardsmen who was busy sparring. She told her of Rickon’s exploits in the godswood with Shaggydog and how each time he came back into the keep, even muddier than the day before.

Catelyn drank in each tale in silence, staring out past the trees as if she could conjure her sons before her with a mere thought. She did not cry, but instead a flush crept up her cheeks, painting them pink.

They rode on in silence until the sky turned from light grey, so very similar to the banners that were hoisted high above her, to a dark purple that reminded her of Rhaegar Targaryen’s eyes. The same deep indigo that she could remember as a girl. When she was young all she wanted was to look like her father, like little Egg with silver hair and purple eyes that shone bright when he smiled his toothless grin. She was common, Dornish, probably didn’t even carry the Valyrian blood, or so they all said. A false dragon was what the small folk called her, for she did not appear to carry the same traits as her father, or her brother.

Robb at the front of the line called for a halt and the steady thump of feet pounding against the dirt road stopped. From where he sat, Robb ushered his horse to the side and conversed quickly with Jon, then with Roose Bolton to his left. She spurred Shadow to move further forward, but before she could get far, he dismounted. Rhaenys followed suit, sliding down from Shadow in a one fluid movement.

Grey Wind, who had been languidly trotting beside Robb for most of the march span around and ran back to where she stood. He nosed at her middle, and she scratched behind his ears, the way that he seemed to like.

Oberyn dismounted as well, and crossed beside her, wary of the wolf that sat at her feet. “Your husband will hold a council?”

“Yes, late into the night I’m sure.” Rhaenys said, remembering the time in Winterfell when she had eventually given up listening to them talk and gone to bed, while Robb had not returned to their bed until the small hours.

She was correct, as when they had all been gathered and situated around the table that held the map, there was constant objections from one man or another. Despite Robb not bowing beneath the pressure to elevate one lord above another, they still pushed for it.

“My Lord,” Wendel Manderly began, planting is hands squarely on the table. “After the crossing at the Twins, should we not prepare for the Kingslayer? It is he who waits beyond the Green Fork.”

“The first thing that must be done is bring Walder Frey to our side,” Lady Catelyn said. “He has never lacked for cunning and has yet to declare for anyone.”

“He is your father’s bannerman, is he not m’lady?” asked Medger Cerwyn. “Sworn to Lord Tully.”

“Some bannermen are less loyal than others,” Catelyn said. “Walder Frey lacks fondness for even his own kin. He is also fonder of the Lannister than he is of my father. He has a son wed to one.”

“Any lion is treacherous, even those wed to one,” her uncle thundered. He was shrouded in shadows and had yet to speak, but even his presence seemed to worry the other lords. “Even those wed to them. Walder Frey is not to be trusted.”

“Some would say the same for you prince Oberyn,” Roose Bolton contrasted with him in every way, his milky white skin almost glowing in the faint candlelight. “Dornishmen are also mistrusted.”

The tension thickened. By Oberyn’s side, Arron Qorgyle and Deziel Dalt both shifted their weight, and lay hands upon the weapons at their sides, a curved scimitar and spear, honed and deadly. Perhaps they were waiting for their liege lord to spear Lord Bolton in one swift movement, but Oberyn’s weapon stayed holstered.

Instead, he laughed so loudly that Rhaenys near jumped out of her skin. “You are bold, and I respect bold men but speak of my people in such a way again and I will run you through.”

Roose simply inclined his head, in such a way that made Rhaenys’ skin crawl and remained silent. There was still a heavy feeling in the air, and she met Robb’s gaze from across the table he mirrored her worry.

There was a resentment that lingered, that she could sense. After the rebellion, the Dornish and Northmen had fought on opposite sides. They might have even killed one another. Her uncle may not have been there, but some of his men may have. Her own great uncle Lewyn had died on the banks of the Trident, as had Rhaegar and surely plenty northerners had fallen to the Martell swords and spears.

“We can argue about who is the least trustworthy my lords,” Robb said, eyes surveying them all, dressed in heavy silver ring mail, and with such travel weary faces. “But it will change nothing other than foster resentment and chasms between us. Tywin Lannister still attacks innocents in the Riverlands, and my father, the Lord of Winterfell still remains in the black cells, while my sisters are held hostage. The Lannisters are the enemy, not each other.”

Rhaenys felt the steel of her spine soften slightly and leant forward as Theon Greyjoy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet opened his mouth. “Ser Brynden has archers shooting down the ravens from the Twins, just in case they are informing Tywin of our movements, and his outriders have been killing their spies with no mercy.”

“Walder Frey must be met,” the Greatjon said. “Whether it is battle, or in his hall.” As if to illustrate his point, he ran his hand -the one with fingers- lovingly over the sword on his hip.

“The Twins cannot be breached without the loss of many men,” Catelyn replied. “It is not impenetrable, but a siege would cost many good soldiers, and the Lannisters could easily advance and surround the castle. This war would be over before it has begun.”

“Then what do you suggest m’lady?” asked the Greatjon. “It is the only crossing along the green fork, the only way to meet the Lannister armies.”

“It is not the only way, but valuable time would be lost skirting along the border of the Riverlands,” said Medger Cerwyn.

“My father called Walder the Late Lord Frey. He will throw the bulk of his men behind the winning side, behind the army who will bring the most power and advantage to him. The only way to cross the Twins is to bargain with him, give him what it is that he wants.”

There were muttered objections, but none of them loud enough to be addressed. After quickly informing them all that they would ride again as soon as the sun rose in the morn, Robb called an end to the council, and slowly they all filtered out, murmuring to each other, or in the case of Oberyn and his companions, glaring furiously at Roose Bolton before stalking away. Jon had left with Theon, who was trying to convince him to visit one of the camp followers and Lady Maege Mormont, who Rhaenys greatly admired had traded words with Robb and exited the tent with Dacey.

Soon, the only ones left were her husband and good mother, all drained.

Robb slumped into a chair, and Rhaenys crossed over, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “I thought that your uncle would rid Lord Bolton of his head,” he confessed.

“I think that the rest of them did too,” she replied, as Robb covered her own hand with his. “Oberyn has always been… unpredictable.”

A wry smile appeared on his face. “Unpredictable indeed. Is it true that he coats his blades in poison? I didn’t think to ask him earlier.”

“It’s true, he has dabbled in it since before I was born.” She could remember when Tyene had been taught to milk a snake for its venom. Rhaenys had found it horrible, and couldn’t stomach watching, but her uncle and his daughter had both stared in rapt fascination as more poison appeared from its fangs. “That’s why they call him the Red Viper, because he’s as dangerous and just as deadly.”

He didn’t speak, but she could see his brow furrowing in concentration until he turned to Lady Catelyn, who had also sunk down into a chair, and stared into the distance.

“My cousin Arianne was once offered a betrothal by Walder Frey,” Rhaenys said quietly, remembering her utter horror when Arianne told her of it, rage evident on her face.

“Which son was it?” Catelyn asked, looking up at her. “He has many of them.”

“It wasn’t a son. The betrothal was for Lord Frey himself. She turned it down, and he married another woman in her place, even younger than I am. They wed on his ninetieth nameday and Arianne got drunk to celebrate.”

Catelyn didn’t seem surprised. “He has the caution of an old man, and ambition of one much younger. There will be a price for crossing, mark my words. The question is how heavy the toll will be.”

“What would father do in my place?” Robb asked finally, leaning forward in the chair, resting his elbows upon his thighs, lacing his fingers together. “What would he do if he were faced with Walder Frey?”

“Find a way across,” Lady Catelyn said, for the first time letting the stone façade falter. The lines on her face grew more and more prominent, and her eyes, the same blue that Rhaenys recognized in her son were filled with worry. “That is what your lord father would do. No matter the price, you must get across that bridge. The lives of your family depend on it.”

 

***

 

Robb tried to make his lord father proud. When riding, he was careful to ask different lords if they would ride alongside him. He showed no preference but spoke to each of them equally. Once Robett Glover had ridden beside him, once the Greatjon, once Lady Maege and Dacey Mormont. All held different concerns, and they were shared with him promptly.

As much as he disliked it, he rarely rode with Rhaenys and usually, they were so tired from the riding they could do little but sleep. There had been little time to discuss the request from her uncle, for her to travel to Dorne, but the more Robb thought about it, the more he thought about what would be best for the northmen, not for him.

If Rhaenys’ hopes were true, and Doran planned to join them, it could only be good, yet if the doubts that crept in were correct, and Doran simply wished for her to return to Dorne were there was little risk of harm, then it would be for nothing.

He had never met her uncle but was told by all that he was shrewd and clever.

“A political man,” confessed Rhaenys who had spoken to him of Doran during one of their fleeting moments together, “but one that is slow to anger, and prone to compromise.”

When Robb had asked about the compromise, she explained that it Oberyn’s youth, he had bed the paramour of a Dornish Lord, Edgar Yronwood. “My uncle was only six and ten, but his reputation preceded him. They fought to the first blood, and both of them bled, but Lord Yronwood’s wounds festered and he died. To placate them, he was exiled for a time, and my cousin Quentyn was fostered with them when he was barely five. It’s one of the reasons that Mellario, Doran’s wife returned to Norvos. She accused him of selling the children to the highest bidder.”

Rhaenys had grown distant when after speaking those words, and he did not press her. There was time enough to still discuss it all, for the most important thing to him was crossing the Green Fork.

Like his mother had said, if they could not come to an agreement with Walder Frey in a timely manner, Tywin Lannister and his army would have the advantage of choosing the battlefield, and men, and Robb had plenty of time to think about how catastrophic that could be.

The road to the Twins was long. As they emerged from the marsh, and into the Riverlands, Robb could see the difference between the north and his mother’s childhood land. The first thing he noticed was how much warmer it was, for he shed his furs quickly for a simple cloak and ring mail. There was still a bitter chill in the mornings, but it faded quickly. There was still a brisk wind, but nothing compared to the aching cold that would leach into his bones when they were riding through the north.

Eddard Stark had taught him plenty, but Robb was not sure how to react to Lord Walder Frey. When he had called the banners, all had obeyed. Even Barbrey Dustin, who had never been fond of his father had sent men to join them. His grandfather had called the banners, and four thousand Frey men had remained at the keep, letting Riverrun fall under siege and allowing hundreds of smallfolk suffer at the hands of Lannister soldiers.

A small, bitter part of him wanted to tear down the walls of the Twins around him, but that was buried quickly beneath rationale. He was at the mercy of Lord Walder, for whatever price he chose to enact, Robb would have to agree with. If they could not come to terms, the only reasonable course of action would to be retreating to Moat Cailin and their march would be over before it began.

It was nearing midday when the two stoat towers came into view. While Moat Cailin held a sort of barren beauty, the only thing vaguely nice about the Twins was the raging river that ran between them, far too high and rapid for them to even consider crossing on foot.

Grey Wind and Ghost, who had been padding far ahead of the columns dropped beside the horses as if they could sense how uneasy they were all becoming. By his side, Rhaenys’ brow was furrowed and there was a strange expression on her face. Apprehension.

“That cannot be assaulted, my lords,” Roose Bolton announced as they approached the portcullis.

“Nor can we take it by siege without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle.” Helman Tallhart stared miserably at the keep. “Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not.”

Robb slowed the march until his horse was barely moving, staring at the castle. There was a loud, creaking sound and the portcullis jerked upwards, and a long plank was pushed across the gorge. Two lines of men rode forward through the gates and approached.

Four were surely Walder Frey’s sons, for they shared the same weak chin, and sparse hair over their heads. The eldest, Stevron, or so he had been told was the one who spoke first, watery eyes surveying the thousands of northmen and dornish that were gathered behind him. “My lord father has sent me to greet you and inquire as to leads this mighty host.”

Robb spurred his horse. “I do.”

Perhaps he looked intimidating, with a snarling direwolf upon his shield that was strapped to his saddle, a gleaming sword at his waist and Grey Wind, yellow eyes glaring at the Frey, for Ser Stevron gulped loudly.

“My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in his castle and explain your purpose here,” Stevron said and the seven hells broke loose.

“You must not do this my lord,” Galbart Glover pleaded. “Lord Walder is not to be trusted.”

By his side, Roose Bolton nodded solemnly. “Go in there alone and you are his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon or slit your throat as he likes.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhaenys raise her hand to her throat.

“If he wants to talk to us, he should throw open his gates and we will all share his meat and mead,” Wendel Manderley announced, glaring at Stevron Frey.

Ser Wylis agreed with his brother. “Or let him come out and treat with Robb here, in plain sight of his men and ours.”

Ser Stevron’s face wrinkled, and Robb could tell that his patience was running thin. He did not wish to treat with Lord Frey, at least not without some sort of certainty, but his mother’s words, her advice on what his father would do in such a situation bounced in his head. _Do what is necessary, get across the bridge._ He was prepared to dismount from his horse when a voice came from beside him.

“I will go,” his mother announced, mount lurching forward.

“You, my lady?” Lord Umber was the first to object, but not the last, as Lord Glover and Lord Cerwyn both began to speak.

“Mother, are you certain?” A cold fist reached up and twisted itself in his chest. It was easier to risk himself than his mother.

“Never more,” she smiled in such a way that made his jaw clench. She was lying, he could tell. “Lord Walder is my father’s bannerman. I have known him since I was a girl. He would never offer me any harm.” Of course she was lying, maybe Walder Frey wouldn’t harm her in regular circumstances, but there were no guarantees in war.

“I am certain my lord father would be pleased to speak to the Lady Catelyn. To vouchsafe for our good intentions, my brother Ser Perwyn will remain here until she is safely returned to you.” The youngest of the party dismounted from his horse and moved over to where Robb remained.

“He will be our honored guest,” he said, staring Stevron down. “I require my lady mother’s return by evenfall. It is not my intent to linger here long.”

 _Cross the bridge, no matter what._ It was what his father would have done. His mother spurred her horse across to where the Frey banners flew high.

“As you say my lord.” With those words, the host retreated into the castle with his mother by his side. She did not look back.

The wind grew crisper and colder. What was once a soft breeze turned into something icy. While they gathered outside the castle, the rest of the soldiers lay down their armor and weapons, gathering around fires next to the castle.

The Greatjon grumbled, and dismounted from his horse quickly, like as not to fetch ale and was joined by Rhaenys’ cousin Obara and Theon Greyjoy. His wife spoke to her uncle, who must have been amusing, for she was smothering a smile often.

Robb remained still. He slid down from his horse but stayed aware. Grey Wind’s ears were pricked up, and when his wolf was worried about something, he was too. Jon stood vigil as well, with Ghost by his feet. They did not speak, or share useless words, but simply waited patiently.

There was only one sound, that of the Green Fork rushing by. The river was high, far too high to cross safely. Perhaps two or three men could cross by a cobbled together raft, but they had no way to ferry supplies and it would take days to find a more suitable crossing. As much as he hated to admit it, there was no other way across that would be bloodless like crossing the Twins.

The wolves sensed her return before anybody else, noses twitching and heavy tails wagging like mere pups.

His mother rode across the bridge, head held high. She was surrounded by men in chain mail, and men with the two towers emblazoned on their chests.

Robb climbed up onto the stallion and held up a hand indicating for the rest of the lords to wait for him to approach his mother. There was only one other who he wished to join him, and Rhaenys seemed to sense it, riding beside him to meet her.

Grey Wind met her first, and Robb followed close behind, and then Rhaenys mere steps behind him.

“It’s done,” his mother said as soon as she came into earshot. “Lord Walder will grant you your crossing. His sword is yours as well, less than four hundred men will remain to hold the Twins. I suggest that you leave four hundred of your own, a mixed force of archers ad swordsmen. He can scarcely object to an offer to augment his own garrison… but make certain you give the command to a man you can trust. Lord Walder may need help to keep the faith.”

“As you say mother,” Robb paused to think of a suitable man to perform such a duty. There were some he preferred by his side, and some that he did not trust to fulfil his orders. “Perhaps Helman Tallhart?”

“A fine choice.”

Then came the toll, a thought that made his stomach churn. “What does he want from us?”

“If you can spare a few of your swords. I need some men to escort two of Lord Frey’s grandsons north to Winterfell. I have agreed to take them as wards.”

He exhaled in relief “Is that all? Two fosterlings? That’s a small enough price to pay-“

“Lord Frey’s son Olyvar will be coming with us,” his mother continued, cutting him off. “He is to serve as your personal squire. His father would like to see him knighted in good time.”

“A squire,” Robb shrugged. “Fine. That’s fine, as long as he’s-“

Once more he was cut off. “Also, if your sister Arya is returned to us safely, it is agreed that she will marry Lord Walder’s youngest son when the two of them come of age.”

 _If_. The usage of if made him feel sick. _If Arya is returned safely._ Still, he nodded. “Arya won’t like that one bit.”

“Still,” Rhaenys began, wheeling her horse around to return the camp. “That is not too heavy a price.”

“It is not all,” his mother began. “Lord Walder wishes to have more.”

“More?” asked Robb, sharing a concerned look with his wife. “What do you mean by more?”

His mother exhaled heavily. “He wants the next lord of Winterfell to wed one of his daughters or granddaughters. You are already wed, so Lord Walder said that he would wait until you have a child. His wish is that a son is to be fostered at the Twins at the age of eight, and then when he is old enough, to marry into house Frey.”

Rhaenys let out a sharp gasp and it felt like a dagger to his heart. Robb swallowed hard. “Is it the price?”

“It is. He will not allow you to cross without the final agreement, and he wishes to speak with the pair of you before he opens the gates.”

No one spoke for an age, until Rhaenys wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She had been crying silently while he was still processing the news.

There were tear tracks on her cheeks, messily wiped away. It must have taken every ounce of strength to open her mouth, to even speak. “If it is what is needed, then I will agree to it.”

He didn’t want to agree, but he had no choice. It was a child, still unborn or his father and sisters. As much as he hated it all, Walder Frey was a shrewd man, and was capable of weaseling whatever he desired. He wanted a Stark lord for a good son and would receive his child as well as compensation for a _bridge_.

They had yet to have one, despite being wed for near on a year. Robb knew that he had been a wedding night babe, his father and mother married, and then Eddard Stark had ridden south, leaving his mother the new lady of Winterfell with a child in her belly.

Rhaenys had been born the same year her parents had wed on the stormy isle of Dragonstone, and her brother had followed less than two years later.

“Do you consent Robb. Do you agree with his terms?” his mother asked, turning to him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to control his emotions, his face. “I consent.”

His mother nodded to one of the men behind her and he turned his horse and rode back through the gates. “Lord Frey will meet with you in plain view, as a gesture of goodwill,” she said, eyes following the retreating figure.

The pike men and archers and knights rode past them to the encampment, but Robb stayed still. A litter carried by several men who nearly seemed to buckle beneath the weight emerged from the castle. There was no curtain keeping it hidden and from view, and as it came closer Robb caught a glimpse of the lord of the crossing.

Lord Walder Frey hardly looked like a person. He was bald, without even wisps of grey hair to cover the liver spots that dotted his scalp. His back was bent, and he could have been mistaken for a child he was so small compared to the chair that he sat in.

Robb dismounted from his horse, and Rhaenys followed. Her eyes were still red, and there was still the remnants of tears on her cheeks.

“Little Rhaenys Targaryen is all grown up now, heh,” he sneered, curling his lip and looked at his wife up and down in such a way that Robb tightened his grip around her waist, thumb rubbing up and down in a comforting way. “Looking more like her mother than her father.”

She curtseyed as he leered at her. “Lord Frey.”

“Pretty enough, if a little dark. I’m sure your child will be a fine match for mine.”

Grey Wind, who was by Robb’s side twitched his nose, but Lord Walder did not seem frightened of him. Instead, he simply stared the wolf down before looking at Robb.

“Some of my men will remain at the Twins with you, Lord Frey,” Robb said, part of him wondering what his reaction would be. “To fortify your defenses.”

He waved a wrinkled hand in dismissal. “Fine, do as you wish.”

Robb tried to direct his attention to him, but he seemed fascinated by Rhaenys, staring at her with his clouded eyes. “Lord Frey,” he began, but he spoke first.

“Forrest Frey asked for the hand of the Half-Year Queen and was called Fool Frey for it. She died anyway,” Walder snickered and almost seemed to enjoy the discomfort he was causing her. “Eaten alive by her own dragon. Heh.”

Her breathing was shallow, as each word that Frey spoke seemed to dig into her flesh like claws. “Yes, my lord. That was many years ago.”

“I am much older than you,” he said, stooping even more. “It was not as long as you might think. I have lived through the reign of eight kings, and six have been Targaryens, the last of course, being your grandfather.”

“They are all long dead,” she replied. “It has been near eighteen years.”

“Eighteen years since the sack,” he said, and a strange look came over his face. “Is it not claimed that Elia Martell killed her son, to save him from the fate that Tywin Lannister had planned? Did she not try to kill you too out of fear that the late King would have the little princess murdered? Or was it the Mad King, who knew that his loyal hand would not save him?”

“The prince Aegon and his mother were murdered by Lannisters,” Robb stated bluntly, thanking the old gods and the new that Oberyn was not there, lest he slaughter any Frey in his path. An alliance had just been made, and as furious as his words made him, he could not risk it being ended prematurely. “That is known by all.”

“Is that true, Lady Rhaenys?” he asked.

“They were killed by Gregor Clegane,” Rhaenys forced the words out. “On the orders of Tywin Lannister. That is the truth.”

Seemingly satisfied, Lord Walder sat back in his seat. “I congratulate you, my lady. You don’t seem to be as mad as the rest of your family, and considering you have both dornish and dragons blood in your veins, that is quite an achievement. You may have my men, and my bridge, but I receive the child.”

Robb inclined his head, gritting his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached. “Lord Frey,” he said, and climbed back on his stallion, Rhaenys by his side without a glance behind.

As they returned to the soldiers, he nodded to each of the lords, all gathered before him. “We will cross, and camp on the other side of the river for the night.”

A murmured agreement came in waves, and Robb moved his horse along, to inspect the men that Walder Frey had sent to them. Four thousand, each equipped well enough and in the same blue that had draped their liege lord.

It had taken minutes for all of the men to gather their things, for the carts to fill and the men to mount their steeds and then, the crossing began.

Robb had led them, passing over the river, loud and rushing. The Lords all gathered behind riding in partners. The bridge was slim, and Robb imagined that it could hardly fit a wheelhouse across it.

Still, they crossed slowly, and made a camp on the other side, next to the castle. The tents were erected, and Robb watched from his horse as slowly and surely, the men filed over the bridge, a river of molten silver.

Rhaenys excused herself to their tent quickly, but Robb felt it was his duty to remain with the rest of the men, to make sure they crossed safely. The sun sunk beneath the trees, and the moon, whiter than the snow left behind in the north appeared in the dark blue sky.

The torches were lit and stabbed into the soft southern ground by the time the men had passed through and finally, Robb made his way to their tent, after speaking with the lords. Roose Bolton would take the forces that remained on the east bank and confront Lord Tywin, while he would continue to Riverrun.

As he passed by the men, all of them nodded in deference. Robb tried to make and effort to learn their names, or at least the house or lands they came from, and he did, speaking politely to them all. There were two Stark men outside of the tent that he shared with his wife, and he thanked the pair before entering.

Rhaenys had her back to him. Her midnight hair was loose and hanging around her shoulders, and the laces at the back of her dress were partly undone, as if she had forgotten to finish them.

Robb couldn’t knock, so he simply tried to rustle the opening of the tent and she turned. Her eyes were still red, as if she had cried even more.

“Come here Rhae,” he said softly. Rhaenys walked as if she were in a dream towards him and he folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She made a small sound, and at first Robb thought it was tears, but when she pulled away to look at him, he realized that she was not crying. It was fury. There were angry red crescents carved into her palms from where she had dug her nails in deep.

He had never seen her so furious, never.

“I hate him,” Rhaenys hissed, burying her face into the side of his neck. “I _hate_ him.”

Robb hated him too, so much that his blood boiled. The way that he had looked at Rhaenys, in that disgusting leering way and the way he spoke to her after forcing an agreement made him sick. It had taken every modicum of self-control to keep from drawing his sword and running the Late Lord Frey through.

“I know,” he said softly, rubbing her back with tenderness. “I know Rhae.”

“The way he spoke about her, the way he implied that it was her who killed my brother,” she looked up into his eyes, “Robb, how can I give a son to that sort of creature? Our babe.”

He was at a loss for words, unsure of what to say. His babe, or the lives of his family. “Rhae, we have no choice. You and I both know what it would mean to deny him.” It was the only choice he had that wouldn’t result in the deaths of his men. It was the only thing he could possibly do. _My father wed my mother for men, after my uncle was murdered at King’s Landing. He was willing to do what he must. I will be the same. I will do what I must._

“I know, but I can’t help the ache that remains at the thought of it,” she said hardly able to meet his eyes. “And I know he is ninety, and may not even live out this war, but his kin are just as bad as he.”

“Not all,” he tried to reassure her. “It is not as hopeless as it seems. He wants the next lord of Winterfell, which will take time.” If he died before they had a son, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Bran would be the next lord, then Rickon. That was a sobering thought.

She exhaled a shuddering breath and composed herself. There was a strand of hair that stuck to her cheek, and he brushed it away softly. “I know I seem selfish, for our marriage was similar. We were told who to wed and are lucky that it was each other, but still the worry remains.”

“Besides, there is still time my love,” Robb said, forcing a smile. “I do not wish to break a betrothal, but if this war ends and my father returns to Winterfell before we have a babe, we can negotiate further.”

She hummed her approval softly and turned away, as if she could end the conversation that easily. “We ought to sleep Robb, the Lannisters will not have waited for us to negotiate with Walder Frey and will surely be marching soon enough.”

“Rhaenys-“ he began but she shook her head.

“Robb,” she whispered without looking at him. Her voice was weak, trembling. “Robb please, I cannot.”

He didn’t speak again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue from Game of Thrones. I hope you all enjoyed, this one was long!


	32. WHISPERING WOODS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed up some of the previous chapter, I recommend rereading so you aren't confused.

 

High above his head, there were birds. Some were as white as snow and uncaring of the worlds of men, the shrikes that he could remember from the north sang blissfully. Others squawked in a wretched way, like they knew what was about to happen, and were ready to feast upon the bodies surely left in the woods.

Robb remembered Arya running on chubby legs around the courtyard, chasing them. He remembered Sansa embroidering birds and Bran scaling the walls, throwing chunks of stale bread for them to eat. He remembered Rickon in his mother’s arms, reaching out for the snow shrikes, not realizing that they were flying high above his head. And Jon, sparring with him so early in the morning that the only sound was the birds waking the rest of the keep from their slumber.

They had been present at his wedding, in the branches of the heart tree while he knelt in the snow, his new wife beside him. And now, they may be present at his death. 

It was a chilling thought.

The road from the Twins had been hard, and Robb had sent out several outriders to rid the forest of Lannister scouts. Every few days, there would be a commotion. Ser Brynden would send men with messages, telling of an impatient Jaime Lannister, who would often ride to attack the Tully soldiers that hid in the trees.

Riverrun had been merely days ride away when Robb had called for the lords to meet with him.

The tent that all of the northerners had gathered in had been erected quickly, and there were still folds of thick beige fabric that hung loose. The Greatjon had to stoop slightly to stop his vision from being obscured, and it was such a bizarre sight, Robb had bitten his lip to keep the laugh in.

 Upon the table was a map, the same that had been carted from camp to camp. There were dozens of little wolf and lion figurines spread over it, gathered in clusters. The majority gathered around the Green Fork and were those who rode with Roose Bolton.

The Lannisters had annexed Riverrun and Edmure Tully was captured. It was mostly women and children who remained in the keep, with few fighting men for protection. Outside the walls, Jaime Lannister commanded many men, but he was growing restless.

“The Kingslayer’s scouts have become bolder, and ride closer to our forces,” Robb began, turning somber.

“To their folly,” interjected Theon with a cocky grin on his face. “None have escaped alive.”

"That doesn't matter," said the Greatjon. "The Kingslayer will continue sending them. If anyone of them lives, the entire army will be revealed."

"Ser Brynden is also ridding the forest around Riverrun of them, but he is losing his own men," Robb said. "Riverrun is two days ride away, if we move quickly, but they still hold the advantage of men."

"The Kingslayer is a competent commander," Prince Oberyn said, brow furrowed in concentration. "Remove him, and all the men in Westeros couldn't control their forces. I've travelled to the Westerlands, and the lords that remain at Riverrun with Jaime have poor military minds. They are not capable of controlling such a number of men."

Pushing the letter from Ser Brynden to the center of the table, Robb looked up, surveying the gathered men and women. "My uncle writes that the Kingslayer rides with the men to chase down any attacks by the Riverlanders. They are few, rarely more than three hundred at a time. They could never break the siege on their own, but with help..." he trailed off.

"An ambush," said Maege Mormont.

He looked back at the letter, edges curling slightly from the mist that seemed to plague the Riverlands. The Blackfish had written as much. “Aye. An ambush.”

It did not take long for the plan to be agreed upon, and a message was sent to his great uncle, asking for him to meet on the outskirts of Riverrun to finalize their attack.

“Prepare your men,” Robb said finally, sliding the little figurines into place upon the map. “We ride at first light.”

And so, each morning, when the sun was still a weak sliver barely touching the sky, Robb had woken and ridden hard at the front of the column. It continued the same, pausing only once or twice a day.

The ride was hard, but with their lesser numbers, any advantage was poised to be a good one. Robb repeated it in his head every time that his hands felt torn to ribbons by the reins, every time he thought he would tumble from the saddle. _It was all for his father, for his sisters and for his family. For the North._

His mantra remained like stone until their army had met with the Tully soldiers commanded by the Ser Brynden. His great uncle was worn, armor covered in mud and dried blood, but he was miraculously unharmed. Of the three hundred men that rode with him, only twenty had been lost in the skirmishes.

Still, twenty was not as many as the Lannisters, who had lost most of their scouting forces. They did not know the woods, not the way Brynden Tully did and found themselves surrounded, cornered and killed.

Lannisters were not welcome in the Riverlands.

Now, Robb could pretend that he stood before the heart tree at Winterfell, but he was lying to himself. The wind was not the brutal cold of the north, the sun, peeking through the grey clouds was warming his skin and there were no snowflakes drifting from the sky.

It was not Ice that he carried into battle, either. He wished that he had the ancestral weapon of House Stark, but this was same sword that he had kept at his hip ever since Bran had been attacked in his bed. The point dug into the soft southern soil. _I will not die in the south,_ Robb thought to himself, flexing his hand around the hilt, holding on as if the weapon were a lifeline. _Riverrun may be the place of my birth, but I am of the north. I am the descendant of the First Men; I carry the blood of the Kings of Winter. I will not die in the south._

“My lord,” began the Greatjon, his own weapon hanging from his waist. “My lord, it is soon. Ser Brynden is prepared to ride with the Tully men, they await your command.”

“Of course,” he said and pulled his sword from the dirt, wiping off the mud with his fingers and revealing the bright silver. It was damp, reddish soil, nothing like the hardened, dry earth that he remembered from the north.

Robb was not so bold to say that he was the greatest swordsman, for Jon got the better of him often, but he was good. Better than most of the men in Winterfell, and more confident too. Surely in battle, he would be capable of holding his own.

The Greatjon led the way to where the Blackfish had gathered with his men. There was a quiet buzz of conversation that lulled as he passed them by. Men inclined their heads, and Robb did his best to greet them by name.

Ghost appeared, Grey Wind by his side, moving soundlessly as the crowd parted. Some were used to the direwolves, but the Tully soldiers flinched away as Grey Wind’s yellow eyes scanned the crowd.

Jon would be close, for Ghost was never far from his master. Sure enough, he materialized ahead of him, already fully clad in his armor with his helm beneath his arm.

“My lord,” he murmured under his breath, bowing his head slightly. Jon was his brother, and Robb hated that he called him such, but they had come to an agreement about it. In private, they were brothers, but around the men it was different.

Still, Jon joined him as he traipsed through the camp, both their wolves padding ahead. His brother moved as silently as Ghost as they approached Ser Brynden and his men, with the Tully trout leaping proudly on their chests.

“At Lady Mormont’s horn,” the Blackfish said as he mounted his horse. “Even if I fall before then, do not attack until you hear the sound of her horn.”

“Then you must not fall,” Robb replied as the grey hair vanished beneath a helm. Only clear blue eyes remained, brighter than men half his age.

Ser Brynden inclined his head slightly and spurred his mount. “I’ve fought in many wars, and I’ve not taken a grievous wound yet. Let us hope my luck holds and it is the Kingslayer who falters.”

The banners disappeared through the trees, the dark shadows swallowing up the blue until there was no trace left.

Robb watched for longer than he should have, waiting until there was nothing to be seen. It was only then he turned away, forcing the grimness from his stance.

It was easier than it should have been to smile easily at the men, helping to help quiet a skittish horse, japing and offering words of encouragement. Trailing him was one of Walder Frey’s sons and now his squire, Olyvar. He was two years older than he, and overly cautious at times, but Robb could not find a fault in him. He was a good lad, nothing like his father.

“M’lord,” called Dacey Mormont, who was also ready for battle, dressed in leather armor, with a ferocious bear growling from upon her shield. She came close and lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “Lady Catelyn wishes to speak with you about the guard.”

“Of course,” he replied, giving his apologies to the men that surrounded him. He knew that his mother would be frustrated with the guards he had assigned her and his wife. Fifty men, all sworn to protect them with their lives.

He followed Dacey through the throng to where his mother stood beside Hallis Mollen. She looked worried, and it struck him suddenly that she had aged terribly quickly in the last year. His mother was not yet forty, but where there had once been smooth skin unblemished by worry, frequent frowns and fear had made their mark.

“Mother,” he began quietly, leading her away from prying ears. “Dacey says you’re concerned for the guard.”

In return, she sent him the same icy glare that he was so accustomed to as a boy. “Fifty men are far too many. You and I both know that you will need them in battle. Ten is suitable.”

“If the Kingslayer learns that you are protected by less than a dozen men- “

“He will not learn anything. You’ve made sure of that.” She surveyed the line, all dressed in their ring mail. “They are good fighting men that will do nothing protecting me and Rhaenys.” He opened his mouth to say disagree, but she shot him down with another look. “Your wife agrees with me. She thinks that there are too many here for no reason.”

Robb exhaled heavily. “The Lannisters have Sansa and Arya and father. I could never forgive myself if they snatch you as well.”

“And I couldn’t forgive myself if my son falls in battle because there are not enough soldiers protecting him.”

“Mother…”

She looked once more to Hallis, and the other Stark banners past him, mixed with the Martell’s sun and spear. They were not the only sigils, but they were by far the most predominant. “Thirty then. Thirty men are enough to protect both Rhaenys and I. Take the other twenty to battle.”

“Fine. Thirty,” he conceded. “But at the first sign of our defeat, ride to safety.”

She was not happy about it but agreed. He sent the additional twenty men to report to the Greatjon, and quickly told Hallis about the changes.

“Do not ride off without a farewell,” his mother said quietly while the men dispersed.

“Of course not. There is still much more to do.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it did not convince his mother. “Also, I was wondering, where did Rhaenys go? I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

His mother’s mouth twitched. “Her uncle. She wished to speak with him before the battle. She said that she would be back soon.”

Robb smiled tightly. “I ought to exchange words with prince Oberyn as well. Do you know where they went?”

“I’m not sure. Search for the sun and spear, and you’ll surely find a Martell.”

Taking her advice, Robb had found the prince with his men, but there was still no sign of Rhaenys. There was a different atmosphere than the rest of the camp. Instead of nervous laughter, it was mostly silent. The Dornishmen twirled their spears, jabbed the air and adjusted the saddles of their mounts constantly, like they were unable to stay still.

Oberyn Martell was in the center of it all, with his eldest daughter by his side, staring at him with a flat glare that almost burned through his skull.

He was sure that the Red Viper had not seen him and opened his mouth to speak when the prince looked up. “Try not to die, Lord Stark,” Oberyn said, a strange smile playing at the edge of lips, tossing the spear between his hands. “My niece would be upset.”

“I must say the same to you, prince Oberyn,” Robb replied, staring in a state of shock as he span his spear in a circle with one hand. It was honed so deadly sharp that it seemed to slice open the air before him. “Rhaenys does have a fondness for her uncle.”

Obara’s dark gaze cut into him again. “She will be safe. My father has sent five more men to guard her and Lady Stark.”

“Rhaenys will be safe, but she will make it difficult. You know how stubborn she can be.”

Oberyn chuckled briefly, and with the help of a squire, mounted his horse. Before Robb could even blink, the face of the Red Viper turned deadly serious. His black eyes were like voids, empty and emotionless, and for just a second, Robb could see the man behind the stories. The volatile man who the seven kingdoms whispered about half in fear that the poison that his blades were dipped in would find its way into their mead.

Patting the side of the horse, he spoke. “We will exchange words after the battle, Lord Stark, but for now I must prepare my men.”

Then, quicker than it had even appeared, a strange smile split his face, and he wheeled his horse away, the Dornishmen following. Some were on horses, trotting behind the prince, but others had no mount, and instead followed behind with light steps.

He had once asked Rhaenys why they didn’t ride on the offered horses several days earlier, and she explained that in Dorne, the sand steeds were a different breed, and rode in a different way.

“It’s not that they do not trust you to give them acceptable mounts,” she said as she laced the front of her dress, “but they have trained on different beasts. Sand steeds are smaller, quicker and steadier. It is almost like gliding. To transition is harder than you would imagine. It is easier to follow behind with spears or arrows.”

Robb paused, and turned to glance at her. “You sound wistful.”

“I am. As a girl I had a sand steed and I used to ride for hours around the keep. Sometimes, it felt like flying.” There was a soft sigh. “I miss it.”

“What happened to the horse?”

“My cousin Elia is caring for her. She’s always been mad for horses. She’d sleep in the stables if she could get away with it.”

A pang in his chest. “She sounds like Arya.”

She didn’t reply then, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else and even days later, as he watched the sun and spear retreat into the distance, the conversation replayed in his head.

The might of Dorne was indispensable. Even with just Oberyn’s men, their number had swelled considerably, and they were all competent fighters. None of them would be liabilities in the field of battle, a thought that did little to calm his nerves.

“My lord,” Olyvar Frey disrupted his thoughts once again, inclining his head slightly. “Your lady wife requests your presence upon the hill.”

 _So, she had made her way back,_ Robb thought to himself, turning to his squire. “Make haste then Olyvar. The battle shall begin soon.”

Robb moved back the way he came, not pausing as often as he had before, but instead’ offering a few words until he made his way to the hill where thirty of his guards remained, the direwolf upon their chests. Alongside them, were five of the Martell men, standing tall with spears in hand.

“M’lord,” Hallis Mollen said, turning slightly at the noise. He was not yet astride his mount, but instead gathered beside the other men and his mother.

Lady Catelyn swallowed. “It’s time.” It was not a question, but a fact and a flicker of anxiety crossed her face as she spoke.

“It is.”

His mother strode purposefully towards him. “Then you must prepare your horse.”

“Olyvar has already done so.”

“And your armor?”

Robb tapped his chest plate with a mailed fist. “It will not fail me. All that is left to do is gather the men to attack.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Darkness is a shield.”

He exhaled. “If there is any sign of danger, you must ride somewhere safe. Do not remain on my account.”

His mother nodded and caught his hand with her own. “I could beg you not to put yourself in harm’s way,” she said, “but it would be for naught.”

“It would,” Robb replied gently. “Besides, there is a guard and they will keep me safe.” _As safe as they can anyway, I have no intention of sitting back and watching as men die for me. I will join them in battle, not command from the rear. That is a coward’s position._

There were thirty young lords who had offered to form an honor guard. Most of them were of age with him, or a few years older. Harrion and Eddard Karstark, Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber. All he knew well and had spent plenty of time around them. They were his friends. His protectors. His brothers in arms.

Robb was grateful for them and had accepted their offers, clapping them on the back the same way that he and Jon used when they sparred in Winterfell, the same way that he and Theon would after spearing a fish in the rushing rivers.

Lady Stark smiled in such a way that it made his heart ache. “Your father would be proud.”

“I hope so mother.”

She embraced him quickly, and he took a moment to breathe in the comforting scent that he remembered from his childhood. “Be careful,” said his mother, and she exhaled as the weight of the world was pressing onto her shoulders.

“I will.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Be safe, be strong,” she implored, lacing her fingers with his. He could feel the racing of her heart as if it were his own, a steady beat that reminded him of the pounding of war drums. “Promise me.”

The same words she spoke when they parted so long ago, when he had climbed upon his horse and ridden through the gates of Winterfell, yet to return.

“Promise,” he said, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I promise.”

“I won’t kiss you goodbye,” Rhaenys murmured, and the sun, so bright and warm glinted off her eyes, turning them a lighter, softer brown, golden flecks that made him smile. “Because this is not goodbye.”

“Of course, it isn’t.” She leaned into his touch and reached up to brush his hair aside. “Both the old gods and the new could not wrest me from your arms.” Her skin was hot, and her fingers burned. It was as if fire had been kindled within her, the kind that kept them warm in the comfort of their bedchambers with entangled limbs and twisted furs. “Look to the woods, for it is from there I will return.”

“I will watch until I see you come back to me.” Rhaenys paused, closing her eyes. “Come back to me.”

Robb closed his hand over hers and pulled it to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss. “Wait for me my love.”

Rhaenys’ hand fell back to her side as he backed away and a plaintive sound came from her lips as he turned away. “Always.”

He did not look back.

It did not take long for the men to gather at the edge of the woods. He could feel the weight of the stares. Both his mother and wife upon the hill, and the men watching for his signal.

There was no sound other than the soft bubble of a stream downhill, and faint breathing. Nobody would exhale properly for fear of making too much noise and alerting Lannisters to the ambush.

Robb’s hand went to the pommel of his weapon, and he drew it. Ice was in King’s Landing with his father, with greedy Lannister’s desperate to get their hands on true valyrian steel.

Instead, he held a sword smaller and lighter than his fathers. It was a strange mixture between a great sword and long sword that Mikken had created specially, but just as well forged as Ice was.

 _All swords should have names,_ he thought to himself. He had told Rhaenys that when he had gifted her a weapon of her own, but he had not even named this one. It was temporary, for soon enough, Ice would be home with his father and sisters.

When he was a boy, Robb would beg to hold it, even if it was just for a moment. He had been ten when his father relented, but nothing had prepared him for the weight of it, and Robb would’ve sworn that his arms had been pulled from their sockets. He could never be the lord of Winterfell if he couldn’t hold a sword, so had resolved to train harder, become stronger. Rodrik had started him training with a great sword that was as tall as he had been, and from there on, it had never been anything other than such a weapon and Jon had joined him.

Now Jon was beside him again, dressed in the same black that he would’ve worn upon the wall. He did not have to meet his eyes to know that his brother was ready. He could see it in the set of his jaw, the way that the reins bunched in his hand. Jon seemed poised to leap into a battle, just like Ghost and Grey Wind.

A horn blast made the camp tremble, and Robb took his helm from Olyvar Frey, tapping the shield that was still strapped to the stallion he rode. Through the trees, he could see the movement of blue banners, silver mail, and horses running fast. The three hundred men that Ser Brynden had taken to lure the Kingslayer from his camp were riding hard.

Behind would be the Lannister men, ready to massacre the few Tully soldiers, too busy laughing at their own luck to realize that they were being led into a trap.

Robb held up his fist. It was clenched so hard that his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palm. _Hold. Hold fast._

Gold and crimson appeared, and the faint whoops of their men. They were growing louder and louder and streaks of color shone through the dark trees, until the sound of the Mormont’s horn came, seemingly out of nowhere. The joyful shouts turned to confusion and then fear as man after man was struck down by the archers in the trees, led by Theon Greyjoy.

He spurred his own mount, and drew his sword, charging with a shout of “Winterfell!” The roar was drowned out by other men howling their own war cries, or simply just baying like wolves to ready themselves for combat.

They fell upon the Lannisters instantly, violently.

A few brave men tried to form ranks, screaming nonsensical commands at one another. Trumpets were blown in a futile attempt to create some order amidst the chaos, but they were silenced prematurely by the men charging at them from the other side of the clearing.

Grey Wind drew the first blood. He leapt upon a man-at-arms and ripped his arm from his socket in one swift motion with a wet squelch. The man did not even have a chance to scream, for next the wolf tore at his throat and with a spray of red he dropped to the ground lifeless.

Ghost followed suit, biting down onto the sword arm of a small soldier and dragging him down from his horse to the ground.

At the sight of the beasts, horses reared and threw their riders to the ground, making them easy targets for the few foot soldiers to dispatch to the seven hells with a simple sword thrust.

It was chaos. Bedlam.

Robb had little time to think, instead finding only reflexes to guide him. _Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Parry._ His stallion was pliable, easy to nudge forwards and it gave him a greater vantage to slash at the Lannister men with his weapon.

Steel sang as blades kissed, ringing in his ears and each man that fell at his feet was followed by others in red and gold.

There was no time to look for his brother, for Jon or Theon or Ser Brynden. The guard had formed a sort of circle around him, bodies constantly blocking his view. Still, the occasional man wormed through, and Robb was forced to dispatch him to the seven, whether it be the hells or not.

His horse reared, tossing him to the ground. Robb landed hard, rolling to the side as Grey Wind lunged for another man who had loomed above him, sending him to the ground, leaving the man half alive, but bleeding out from the throat. He would join his fellow soldiers soon enough.

Robb rose quickly. There was no time to climb back onto his horse, so instead he snatched his shield from where it lay on the ground, and advanced with the rest of his guard.

A cry cut through the noise, a cry of, “the Kingslayer! The Kingslayer is here-“ a desperate squawk and then silence, but the shout had done what was needed. Through the darkness, Robb could see him.

Ser Jaime Lannister did not wear a helm, and his golden hair shone by the light of the moon. The white stallion that he rode upon was the only creature unmarred by the dirt and gore of the battle, as if mud refused to even come anywhere near the infamous Lion of Lannister. His silver sword dripped with the blood of the northmen, mingling with the dirt.

“Kingslayer!” howled the Greatjon, brandishing a red axe towards the sky. “Kingslayer! Come and die!”

 _It was not an axe he carried into battle,_ Robb thought disjointedly, remembering the greatsword with chains etched onto the hilt that the Greatjon had proudly polished the night before, announcing that it had been a relic of the first men. _He must have lost it_.

He was only acknowledged by the cry of another Lannister, who launched himself at Lord Jon Umber. It was a futile attempt, for he was tossed to the ground and then speared by Oberyn, who had a maniac smile upon his face.

It could have been dozens of men that lay at the foot of the Red Viper, who waded through the bodies as if they were simply water. Another fell, and another, all dead before they hit the ground.

Retreating beside him was his wolf. Grey Wind’s maw was red and dripping, and bodies lying in between the trees held gaping holes by their throats, entrails hanging from wounds, blood still spilling with every fading heartbeat.

One man rasped, frantic hands moving to his thigh, where blood spurted like a fountain. There was scarcely resistance as Robb forced the sword in, and the little life that remained sprayed over the grass.

Even at the slightest glance, it was obvious that the Lannisters were hopelessly outnumbered.

“Robb!” There was blood smeared across his cheek, and he favored his left arm over his right, but Jon was blissfully intact, “Robb, Ser Jaime is the only one not captured or dead.”

There were nearly two dozen men in Lannister red still standing, all surrounding the Jaime, whose snow-white cloak was a beacon to rally around. He was unaffected no longer, for his breastplate was covered in blood and there was a slash across his cheek.

Across the bloody field, Robb met his gaze. Blue and green glared at one another, daring the other to move.

Hacking his way towards him, the Kingslayer began to shout. “Stark! Fight me Stark! Face me alone!”

He parted men like they were little more than water, leaving behind only blood in his wake.

Another Lannister soldier attacked, drawing his attention away from Ser Jaime. Using his shield, Robb blocked the sword, the blow rattling the bones in his arm and retaliated. Their weapons met again, creating an almighty ringing sound.

The man he fought was smaller in stature and the ring mail that he wore was too heavy for him, causing him to become unbalanced. Dancing backwards, Robb took his chance and jabbed hard at the ribs, piercing the armor.

Grey Wind howled. A loud _clash_ and a short cry. Turning, Robb saw the Kingslayer, sword dripping.

Daryn Hornwood lay at his feet. He had taken the blow intended for Robb, so strong and powerful that it had split open his skull.

“How many men will die for you Stark?” Ser Jaime hissed, narrowing his eyes and stepping over Daryn’s body as if it was little more than an inconvenience. His sword jerked and blood sprayed again.

There was a guttural scream as Torrhen Karstark clutched the stump where his hand once was. Upon the ground, his sword was still tightly clutched by the fingers. The Kingslayer thrust his sword through his chest, and the cry stopped as he landed with a thump.

“No!” his brother Eddard threw himself towards the Kingslayer blindly, swinging his axe left and right. There was a crushing sound as it made contact with the silver breastplate, and Jaime Lannister stumbled backwards, caught unaware. Eddard threw himself towards him again, but the Kingslayer was prepared, and slashed his sword, splitting the skin on Eddard’s throat and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Forcing his way through the bodies, Robb slashed at him blindly. Jaime met him with his own weapon, and the steel rang true. Each thrust and parry was met, and Robb found himself defending instead of attacking. For each step forwards, he was moving several backwards.

“Lannister!” came a cry and the Kingslayer flinched. It was just for a second, but that was long enough. Using the leverage, Robb leapt forward.

Jaime lurched forward the hilt of Robb’s sword slammed into his golden hair and stopped moving entirely when he realized that pressed to his throat, was a long, pointed spear.

“Yield,” Oberyn Martell said, digging the point into his neck. It seemed that it would break the skin. The Prince’s blade was dipped in poison, something so deadly that even the smallest cut could kill. Oberyn pressed harder. “Yield.”

The Lion of Lannister dropped his sword with a soft thump. Across the field, through the trees, each of the soldiers in red dropped their own swords, raising their hands to surrender. “That was hardly fair, prince Oberyn. I thought you were more sporting.”

“Do not speak to me of fairness.” Oberyn removed his spear, and it was replaced by a sword held by Lord Jon Umber, who like many others was bloodied and dirtied, but seemingly unharmed. “Do not forget my sister, Ser Jaime.”

He looked away, instead staring at Robb. The Kingslayer was on his knees, covered in dirt, yet the gold still shone. The Greatjon rested his weapon upon his throat. Even the slightest move would send Lannister blood to water the ground. But the Kingslayer did not seem to care, as a sardonic smile rested upon his lips.

“Will you kill me Stark?”

His gaze like daggers, Robb stared down at him. “No.”

“Ransom then?” he laughed bitterly. “I am far from a lord or a prince. I’m just a lowly knight. My father will pay nothing. It is easier to kill me.”

“You are far more than that Ser Jaime. Far more valuable alive than dead.” 

The Greatjon huffed, and hauled him from his knees, clapping irons around his wrists and ankles.

Robb pulled his helm from his head and dropped it to the ground. His limbs ached; every movement felt like it took an age. The sun was beginning to rise, and as light danced above the trees, a shimmer caught his eye.

Tall and proud, a sword pinned a soldier to the ground. There was a faint whimper from the unfortunate man, who whimpered, unable to form words. His hands closed around the blade as if he were trying to force the weapon out, but the he was far too weak to do so.

It was the Greatjon’s. _So, he hasn’t lost it,_ Robb thought, crossing over to where it protruded. The man- no boy- that it held down was crying. Perhaps he had screamed when he had been stabbed, but he could scarce summon the strength to make a sound.

He looked like Bran. His hair was a few shades lighter, more blonde than red, but the resemblance startled Robb. The wound in his belly was fatal, and blood trickled from his mouth in a stream.

“Please…” his voice little more than a whisper. “Mercy…”

Robb paused, starring at the boy with pity. “Granted.”

As his sword fell, Grey Wind howled.

 

***

 

Rhaenys was half asleep when she heard the telltale footsteps. There were murmurs outside, and the fabric that covered the tent’s opening was pushed aside so gently that there was barely any rustling.

Slowly she opened her eyes and stared at the figure silhouetted in the torchlight.

Robb ducked his head low. “Forgive me, I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” She slid her legs from below the furs and sat upright. “Come to bed my love.” He didn’t move. It was as if he had frozen solid. “Robb?” Rhaenys rose and the cot creaked loudly.

“Too many good men died today.” His hands shook, and when she reached for them, were icy. “My friends died before me and I couldn’t save them.”

“There is only one man to be blamed,” she replied, trying to be soothing. “It was the Kingslayer who took their lives, who tried to kill you.”

“Yet I am here, and they are dead. They gave their lives for me. For my father.”

“You are their lord, the heir to Winterfell and the Warden of the North.”

“I know.”

“For the north,” she whispered, running her thumb over his knuckles. “It was for the north. So that their homes, their lord will be free.” His head bowed, and without thinking, she pulled him into her arms. “Stay with me, my love.”

He didn’t move at first, arms hanging limply by his side but slowly, the tension that he held in his body leeched away and he became almost boneless in her arms.

Even as she held him in her arms, safe and whole, Rhaenys could still feel the worry deep in the pit of her stomach, the terrible ache that came when she sat upon her horse and craned her neck desperately to see what was happening below in the clearing.

Robb’s cry of “Winterfell!” had been strong at the beginning of the battle cutting through the silence. It had made her hands shake, the very sound of the horns bellowing through the forest. Rhaenys shifted on her saddle to catch a glimpse of him, of Grey Wind or Ghost or even a sliver of the running direwolf upon the banner, but she could see nothing.

The trees, so tall and protecting when the Stark forces were hidden had become such a hinderance, blocking all view. Each clash of steel, cry of pain or wrath -she could scarcely tell the difference- dug into her chest.

She had sat beside Lady Catelyn, heart in her throat. Shadow was restless, the sounds causing her to whinny frantically and dig her hooves into the soft dirt.

“M’lady, take care,” Hallis warned, somewhat unnecessarily. “She may toss you.”

Patting the mare’s side gently, she glanced at Hallis. “She will not. It’s the noise that is frightening her. She’s never been the close to battle.”

Lady Catelyn’s own horse huffed, tossing its regal head back.

Another cry shattered the air, and Rhaenys flinched as if she could feel the sword plunging into her own chest.

Suddenly, she was a girl of three again, hiding behind velvet curtains, listening as her brother’s skull was smashed against the wall, as her mother watched. The shouts and clash of steel turned to her mother screaming, voice raw. And just like the first time, she could not see.

It was noise, only noise. Raw voices. Memories that she had thought had been buried long ago resurfaced.

 _“Where is the girl?”_ _roared a man with the lion upon his chest and a rusted sword that dried blood clung. “The other dragonspawn!”_

_The curtain was red as blood, and so heavy that Rhaenys thought that she would stop breathing. Tears ran silent and unbidden down her cheeks, landing upon her pristine nightdress._

_And screams, she couldn’t forget the screams. Her mother had never screamed like that before, not ever when Egg was born. This was a haunting scream that struck her to the core._

“M’lady?” a voice shocked her from her thoughts. Hallis Mollen looked concerned. “Are you well m’lady?”

She inhaled sharply, as if she could not get enough air. “I am, thank you Hallis.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the soldiers surrounding them exchange glances, but she put it out of her mind.

“Rhaenys?” Lady Catelyn murmured, leaning over slightly. “It is not easy to wait, to be ignorant while those we love fight. But you must remain strong.”

She did not reply. Instead, Rhaenys simply patted Shadow’s side again, staring into the blackness. There was no room for words in her mind, only fear.

_Strong? Like mother had been, locked in the Red Keep, far away from her home while her husband died in the Trident, while her closest friend was far away in Dorne, while her brothers fought for the king who had imprisoned her and her children in the first place._

A sudden and fierce longing overcame her. All she wanted was to return to Winterfell, to lie beneath the furs in the arms of her husband, to have a babe with no consequence, to have a son who was free to love and wed as he chose instead of being the price of a bridge.

It haunted her and had done for days. She could hardly glance at Lady Catelyn without feeling ill. All she could see was Walder Frey looming above, his weaselly face leering at her, holding a babe draped not in Stark grey, but Frey blue with the towers embroidered upon the blankets.

“Rhaenys.”

“I cannot stop thinking of my future babe,” Rhaenys said softly. “Of his fate, trapped in the Twins.”

Her good mother looked away, staring down into the battle. “There is no need to think of such things now.”

“There is.” If she thought about Robb trapped in the throng below, she may have fallen from her horse. “Of course there is.”

“Are you with child then?”

“No, but that doesn’t matter.” Rhaenys was bitter. “Could you not have consulted with Robb and I before making the decision to give my son to Walder Frey? I have had no say in its future, because it has been sold before even being born!”

Lady Catelyn sighed heavily. “I had no choice Rhaenys, if there were another way, another feasible way I would have taken it.”

“What else did he want? He got grandsons fostered, others to be knighted and Arya and a babe. What did he want in the beginning?”

“He wanted for Robb to annul his marriage to you on the grounds of no heir!” Her voice was sharp, cutting. Rhaenys’ skin crawled and her fingers closed around the reins so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Lady Catelyn’s tone softened. “He claimed it was the difficulty that women of your line have with conceiving. He said that his daughters could bear a child within a year easily. He wanted Sansa, and Rickon, and he could’ve gotten it all. He held all of the power.”

“All of the power?” Rhaenys couldn’t help her cynicism. “He is a bannerman, and a minor one at that. His power comes from extortion, and always has.”

“Rhaenys, you must understand, the Twins is the only place to cross the Green Fork. Lord Tywin’s army holds the Trident, and unless Robb chose to send thousands of men to their deaths to fight and die for a battle that needn’t be fought, that could be resolved by simply bargaining there was no other choice. The river was too high to cross. This was the best way.”

“So, you bargained,” she turned slightly, letting her hair fall from behind her ear. “Lady Stark, any son that Robb and I have could potentially be the heir to the Iron Throne, to Dorne even. Walder Frey holds that now, along with the north.”

She blanched. “The Iron Throne will go to Stannis, as Robert’s heir.”

“Robert was the usurper. Stannis is the brother of a usurper. He deserves Storm’s End, but not the throne.” The words tumbled from her lips like a waterfall, and as soon as she said them, she wished for nothing more than to take them back. _Stannis was Robert’s heir, and Robert took it by conquest. By law, it belongs to the Baratheons._

“Do you want it then Rhaenys? Do you want to throne, do you want a restoration?”

“No! No, I don’t. I want nothing to do with it, but any child borne from _my_ _body_ holds a claim. A child with Targaryen blood. They killed my brother for it, tried to kill me and exiled what little remained of my family to be hunted down simply for what ran in their veins. Walder Frey was surely aware of it. He would have known; I know that he would’ve. Why else would he have brought up Rhaenyra Targaryen and Forrest Frey?”

“Perhaps he simply wanted to hurt you,” Catelyn said, trying to placate. “Perhaps he simply wanted to test you. Rhaenys, not everything has been about the Targaryens.”

She conceded. “Perhaps not, but you did not hear how he spoke, what he said.”

“And you did not hear what he said in the safety of the Twins. He is a vile man, but he is shrewd. He knew his cards, and he played them well.” Lady Catelyn sighed. “Is one life worth more than hundreds who surely would die when the Lannister army attacks?”

“He is your bannerman, he must fight for the Tully’s.”

“Lord Frey claimed that he was drawing his strength when the call came, and it was too late to join before the Lannisters attacked. He may be a bannerman to the Tully’s, but he has always wanted more.”

“So, are you telling me that you do not trust him?”

“A clever man would never trust Walder Frey. Never. But to ally with him is a different matter. He protects what is his.”

Rhaenys could feel her chest tighten. “What is his?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That is what you meant.” Her child was an investment to him, a way to expand his hold in Westeros. She had realized it from the moment the terms had been decided. The future Lord of Winterfell, and when Eddard Stark, and Robb Stark were long dead, Walder Frey would surely roam the halls of Winterfell, leering down at the statues in the crypt and corrupting all that the north held dear.

He wanted two ties to the north, poor Arya still sequestered in King’s Landing, and an unborn child. Neither were certain, for- _No. I musn’t think of such things. The Lannister will not risk a trueborn daughter of a great family._ _They are not so stupid as to rid themselves of a hostage._ Rhaenys set her jaw, listening to the sound of battle. _They wouldn’t hurt Sansa and Arya._

Lady Catelyn had quieted, surely thinking of her own children. Robb, fighting a war for his father, Sansa and Arya locked in the Red Keep. Bran and Rickon far north. She had not seen her son since his fall, when he was so frail and weak that it seemed only prayer would wake him. And Rickon, so young and unable to comprehend the change that he faced.

“I understand your distress Rhaenys, but it was the price.” Lady Catelyn said in a strained voice. “Do not be mistaken in thinking that I agreed with Walder Frey. My own daughter has been sold to him, and I had no choice. I would rather have Arya safe in my arms, brush Sansa’s hair like I did when she was a little girl, to see my husband and sons once again with nothing more than two marriages than have to fight my way through Westeros for it. Blood needn’t be spilled.”

Rhaenys flushed, feeling thoroughly chastised. She had been selfish, thinking only of how it had affected her. She was the lady of a keep, and yet still thought of herself as the half wild creature in Sunspear who had been indulged.

Men were dying below her, bleeding out in the name of their liege lord. Robb was in the clearing, Oberyn, Obara, Jon and Theon. Her family. _It was a steep price,_ she thought firmly. _But if it keeps them alive, it was worth it._

Now, as she clung to Robb in the darkness of the tent, all of thoughts that whirled about made her numb. Oberyn and Obara were alive, safe. Jon was safe, even Theon drank excessively as if he were worshipping at the altar of his own gods.

Rhaenys could feel his muscles, tense and corded slowly relax. She felt dwarfed in his arms as her husband slowly reached around her, intertwining his fingers in her hair.

It was a mirror of the two of them mere days ago, when he had comforted her at the news of Walder Frey and his bargain, something so trivial. Now she tried to comfort him, but she didn’t know how.

There was nothing to be said, and while men celebrated the victory while feasting and drinking and singing as Jaime Lannister and what remained of his men were clapped in irons, Rhaenys Targaryen and Robb Stark stood in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had serious writers block after the last chapter, and took a much longer break than I anticipated. However, I hope this chapter makes up for my lack of updates. University has been extremely busy for me, so I might take some time on the next one too, but, I do have quite a lot of the next five chapters plotted and/or written. Thanks for sticking with me for this chapter, I really appreciate it! As always, if there are any glaring errors, feel free to let me know and if you like this please comment and tell me. You have no idea how much motivation it gives. I hope you all enjoyed!


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